


Ten times the Duke of Dragonstone realized he liked Sansa Tyrell

by LionsAndTigers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Battle Of Waterloo, But they still manage to fall in love, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Regency Westeros, Sansa Stark is Scottish, Sansa is briefly married to someone else, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stannis is the Duke of Wellington, Stansa centric, They are not soulmates, They have a ridiculous amount of sex, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LionsAndTigers/pseuds/LionsAndTigers
Summary: Stannis Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone, victor of Waterloo, Field Marshal of England, Generalissimo of Spain, Head of the Anglo-Allied Army governing France, knows that true matches are exceptionally rare.But is your soulmate truly the only guarantee for happiness?
Relationships: Edmure Tully/Margaery Tyrell, Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell (Mentioned), Sansa Stark/Loras Tyrell, Selyse Baratheon/Stannis Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon/Melisandre (mentioned), Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark
Comments: 95
Kudos: 120





	1. In Which the Viscount of Dragonstone Meets Mrs. Tyrell for the First Time - 1812

**Author's Note:**

> This work is heavily based on AMarguerite universe, "An Ever-Fixed Mark". For fans of Pride and Prejudice - I highly recommend everything she's ever written. For fans of just plain, good writing - I recommend the same :)
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/series/629375

On a non-descript eve in Portugal, in the year 1812, General Stannis Baratheon, Viscount Dragonstone, glanced at his pocket watch with a faint stir of irritation. _How had it gone seven-o-clock already?_ He wondered, disgruntled. Portuguese and Spanish methods of timekeeping were, in his experience, incompatible with those of England’s. He had endured several meetings which could have been letters, and each of them had dragged on past the point of usefulness. He had not finished half of what he wished to accomplish that day, which naturally put him in a poor mood.

“Massey!” Stannis called.

His favorite aide-de-camp, Lord Justin Massey, immediately opened the door to Stannis’ temporary office and looked in. “Sir?”

“Davos leave already?”

“Colonel Seaworth went to dine and dress for the ball, sir. It was gone half-past six when he departed and the ball begins at eight.” Massey had a remarkable ability to supply details Stannis did not care to know in such a well-bred way, it eradicated the necessity of Stannis’ having to ask after them. Stannis valued Massey as much for this as for his intelligence. Most staff-officers Whitehall and varying family members and society acquaintances tried to foist on him didn’t have the sense God gave a whelk.

“Shall I have some dinner sent up to you, sir?”

“Tell one of my servants to have it sent up to my dressing room.”

“Certainly sir-- anything you--”

“I am indifferent to all that,” said Stannis, who could not bring himself to care about food. He hadn’t much of a sense of taste. He’d drunk spoilt milk before without noticing. “Bread and cold beef will do as well as anything. Come help me lock these away once you have given the order.”

Massey did so and then said, “We’ve several regiments newly arrived in Lisbon, sir. I daresay we shall see them at the ball this evening.” 

Stannis listened with but half an ear to Massey’s list. His mind was galloping along like a hunter during a chase-- working on all the problems he faced now the rainy season had ended-- whether or not he could trust the intelligence reports he was organizing, where Lord Varys was (one could always trust his reports), whether or not there was sufficient supply to press on, into the interior of Spain, what the newspapers back home would report if he failed to do so.

Then he caught, “-- and Colonel Loras Tyrell and Mrs. Tyrell.”

“ _Mrs._ Tyrell?”

Massey tied shut some letters in a portfolio. “Yes, sir, Mrs. Tyrell. They are newly married.”

Stannis felt a sudden surge of fellow feeling, which he disliked sharing with a Tyrell on principal, but was nonetheless hard put not to stare at the hideous armlet poking out from under his sleeve, under which his soulmark curled in black cursive. If Stannis was not mistaken-- and he very rarely was, now that he knew he’d made the worst mistake of his life in marrying Selyse Florent -- Colonel Tyrell had had similar problems and been put in the army for similar reasons as Stannis had. For some years, the young colonel had even been Renly’s _close_ companion. _Poor fellow. Had his family made him marry?_

“I thought Colonel Tyrell was a friend of my brother.”

“He and the Baron of Storm’s End are no longer friends, sir-- but my mother back home wrote that the Earl of Highgarden had bought notices in every paper that Colonel Loras Tyrell had married a Miss Sansa Stark of Winterfell, in Sutherland, Scotland.”

“Ha.” said Stannis. This was a noise he often made, which occasionally startled those around him, and which conveniently signalled he had heard what had been said and no more.

“Yes, sir.” Massey added, as he locked all the papers in a drawer, “My mother was at the wedding. The way Lord Tyrell was crying it up made her suspicious. She sat in one of the front pews and was very disappointed to see bride and groom were in fact, perfectly matched.”

Stannis involuntarily thought back to his own, dreadful wedding, and the horrifying moment when he and Selyse had bared their wrists before the altar to discover they were not a match at all.

He dined and dressed with dispatch, ruthlessly forcing his mind out of this unprofitable series of memories. At the ball, at least, his mind could be more agreeably engaged. He scanned the room, gaze pointedly ignoring the particular beauties of Lisbon, before his traitorous gaze spotted a newcomer. A dazzling redhead was stood in the corner near him, with purple flowers in her crimson curls, fine blue eyes, and a light and pleasing figure well draped in shirred white muslin. Stannis, much to his private embarrassment, had a rather well-known weakness for beautiful, redheaded women. His most famous mistress had been one, after all.

“Massey, who is that?”

Massey looked perplexed. “I do not know, sir. Shall I inquire-- ah, there is Colonel Seaworth.”

Davos strolled over to them, and, seeing just how Stannis’ attention was engaged, smiled in good-natured amusement. It was a profound relief to have a friend with whom one could be entirely open; to whom the workings of his mind were entirely understood, and accepted-- and better still, who guarded his thoughts as zealously as he guarded his own. Early on they had been embarrassed to know their friendship would define the whole of their emotional lives, but with age had come acceptance and honest pleasure in their familiarity. “My lords. I am glad to see you were not buried under an avalanche of paperwork.”

“It was a close-run thing, I assure you.” Stannis glanced back at the lady. “Do you know who that is?”

“Mrs. Tyrell,” said Davos. 

Colonel Tyrell’s appearing beside her with two glasses of punch confirmed this impression. Stannis stopped paying attention to what Massey and Davos were saying to observe the tenderness with which Colonel Tyrell smiled down at his wife, and the pleasure with which Mrs. Tyrell took the cup from him. His delicate, boyish features matched his wife’s perfectly, though his plain brown hair and eyes could never hope to match her fiery beauty. Still, they made a very handsome, very _happy_ couple.

“Ha,” said Stannis, at no-one in particular.

“Shall we go over?” asked Davos, easily following where Stannis’ thoughts had wandered.

They did, to the evident, and unexpected pleasure of Colonel Tyrell. Stannis had expected embarrassment from the younger man, given their mutual connection to Renly. But from his manner it seemed that Colonel Tyrell’s greatest joy in life was being able to introduce his wife to people. Mrs. Tyrell curtsied very gracefully, murmuring politely that it was an honor. Her accent was very slight, exotic while still undeniably English. Stannis heartily approved of this, having himself been born, much to his consternation, Irish.

Stannis bowed, and let the others reply with the rote refutation that the honor was theirs. When it was time for him to speak he preferred to ask, much to everyone’s astonishment, if Mrs. Tyrell had the supper set free-- which, as it turned out, she did. Despite this rather unusual impulse, Stannis was pleased to find, later in the evening, that Mrs. Tyrell was a very good dancer, with a pleasant elasticity to her movements. It was easy to lead her about, despite having fallen out of practice long ago. After the first turn of the dance, he asked, as cordially as he could muster, “How do you like Lisbon, Mrs. Tyrell?”

She raised her blue eyes to his face, dazzling him with the brilliance of her smile. “A great deal better than my journey to it, sir.”

“Not a sailor, eh?” asked Stannis. He himself had been keen on a career in the navy, once upon a time.

“Not at all! Thank heaven Colonel Tyrell is an infantryman. I really would follow him anywhere, but if he had been a naval man, my dedication would be very sorely tried.”

Mrs. Tyrell turned out to have rather a keen mind. She laughed easily, accepting his dry witticisms, so often mistaken for censure, with equanimity. Stannis was fast becoming jealous of Colonel Tyrell’s good fortune. He was hard put to say, even to himself, if there was greater pleasure in speaking to her, dancing with her, or looking at her.

His gaze often drifted to the delicate purple-blue blossoms in her hair. He thought of asking for a sprig of it. But at a glance down at her expression of arch sweetness, and the recollection that she was not even two months married, and fresh plucked from the Scottish countryside, and immediately transported to Lisbon, made him reconsider. _Best not to frighten her_ , Stannis thought.

The dance ended then, and Stannis was suddenly glad he’d thought to ask for the supper set, for he had the pleasure of leading her in, and conversing with her about the campaign ahead. It did very much please him to discover Mrs. Tyrell, being Scottish, was not the sort of woman to be frightened by a little hardship. She met his grim warnings with spirit and called upon a friend she had already made, a Mrs. Payne, to support her.

When the two of them rose, so that Mrs. Tyrell might be introduced to one of Mrs. Payne’s friends, Stannis went first to find Colonel Tyrell before going on his usual rounds.

“Is my wife with you, sir?” asked Colonel Tyrell.

“Mrs. Payne has stolen her away,” replied Stannis.

“I cannot blame her,” Colonel Tyrell’s voice was smug with pride. “Mrs. Tyrell is everything charming. Didn’t you think so, Colonel Seaworth?”

“Mrs. Tyrell is a very lovely young lady,” agreed Davos. “I congratulate you, sir.”

Colonel Tyrell grinned. “I cannot be impartial about her, for she is my soulmate, but I am inclined to agree. I am very lucky to have found Mrs. Tyrell.”

Stannis hesitated. It was not in his nature to share private thoughts. But it was a night of firsts, so he found himself saying, “I cannot claim impartiality, either, for she thoroughly charmed me, but I will go farther than Davos and say any man would think himself lucky to be married to Mrs. Tyrell. It is a mark of your good sense, Colonel, that you realize it.”


	2. In Which there is a Funeral (the Aftermath of Waterloo) - 1815

Field Marshal Stannis Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone, felt like a quote out of context, on foot and surrounded by fresh graves, instead of ahorse and surrounded by his staff. Yet, when he looked about, all the names on the wooden crosses and hastily carved stone were British, and familiar. Stannis was, in a way, still surrounded by his men. His heart ached with the burden of so many cherished lives sacrificed at the alter of a free Europe.

None, it seemed, more loved or more grieved for than the dead husband of the woman on his arm. Women were not, strictly speaking, supposed to attend funerals. But Stannis could admit, at least privately, that he had a certain weakness for Mrs. Tyrell, and carried more than a grain of guilt over her loss. A mere shadow of the vivacious beauty he had met in Lisbon, the loss of her true soulmate had devastated the girl. A soulmate who’s sacrifice had been the only thing standing between Stannis’ victory and a disgraced defeat. Had Colonel Tyrell not held Hougoumont for the Duke as long as he had, Waterloo would have likely been a resounding loss, on top of a massacre.

He had not been surprised to hear Colonel Tyrell had died, when he called late last evening, but he had been grieved by it, and told the newly widowed Mrs. Tyrell that though he was riding out tomorrow noon to chase Napoleon back to Paris, he was at her service until then, if she had need of him. Mrs. Tyrell begged the indulgence of His Grace's escort at the funeral the next morning. “I know,” she said, as he frowned, “It is not done, but please, sir; grant me this. If you will give countenance to it, no one will call it improper.”

Stannis had not been terrifically pleased with the request. “It will overset you.”

“Not in the least, Your Grace. I was two nights at Hougoumont, just after the battle, and I did not faint. Nor did I faint or go into hysterics the nearly three years I was in Spain. I should more likely be overset if I remained at home, unable to do anything.” She had tried to smile, but she seemed, oddly, to have forgotten how to arrange the muscles in her face to achieve this; she ended up with an expression of great strain when she said, “I ended my honeymoon by following Colonel Tyrell to Lisbon. I am not sure I could ever be easy with myself if I did not follow my husband to the very last.”

Stannis had regarded her with an air of admiration, resigned to his fate. “You’re a rare woman, Mrs. Tyrell. Very few women of my acquaintance would do so much.”

“We were soulmates,” Sansa Tyrell had said, holding up her bare left wrist.

This, at last, had been argument enough; it was an open secret that the Duke and Duchess of Dragonstone were not a match, and had only discovered it when baring their wrists before the altar. He tended to be a soft touch before the evidence of actual matches, as a result.

And so the Duke of Dragonstone had wordlessly offered the widow Tyrell his hand, had personally escorted her to a seat in the back of Mont St. Jean, the Protestant church that that had already interred so many British officers, and had taken it once again when she walked out of it to the cemetery. As they walked over the fresh churned earth, Stannis said in a low, rough voice, “Thank God I don’t know what it is to lose a battle, but certainly nothing can be more painful than to gain one with the loss of so many friends.”

Mrs. Tyrell nodded her head, but did not speak.

When the last spadeful of earth had fallen, Stannis took Mrs. Tyrell’s pale hand from where it rested on his arm and kissed it politely. “Keep a stiff upper lip, Mrs. Tyrell.”

“I shall do my best to obey you, sir,” said the widow, with rather a sad little attempt at a salute.

Stannis took his leave, noting he would have to call on her when he was back to London. Of all the many women of his acquaintance, there really were none quite like Sansa Stark Tyrell.


	3. In Which the Duke is Humbugged (and Lord Baratheon makes a Brief Appearance) - 1816

By the time Stannis was satisfied France won’t spontaneously erupt the moment he departed its shores, six months had gone by, and January had crept up on him once more. But coming to London did not spell an end to his obligations, nor was he allowed to wallow in his private misery as he so longed to do. Indeed, it seemed the entire peerage were determined to impose on his time, for after years of whispers and speculation about his increasing madness, which Stannis profoundly disliked, King Aerys had been deemed unfit to rule, and Prince Rhaegar was named Regent.

At first, many in the Tory party expressed concern over the Hero of the Battle of Waterloo’s ability to get along with the Prince. After all, the Prince’ late wife, and soulmate, had once been the first wife of Robert Baratheon, Earl of Storm’s End, and Stannis’ elder brother. But the result of the whole sad business seemed to be the Prince Regent going out of his way to show he had nothing but affection for the Duke of Dragonstone. His friendliness towards Stannis was, as a result, exaggerated, disingenuous, and unwelcome, especially since the Prince was, for the most part, a sensible, domestic sort. Stannis had half a mind to tell His Grace his actions were unnecessary. He bore the Prince no ill-will over having the misfortune to discover his soulmate only after she’d been hastily married to Robert at the tender age of fifteen. Nor did he believe the Prince’s actions likely to win him any sympathy from the rest of the Baratheons. Stannis and Robert had never seen eye-to-eye, and neither his brother nor his second wife, Cersei, were pleased by having a younger brother frog-leap over them so neatly into Dukedom.

Even home, such as it was, proved exhausting. Selyse was ill-suited to be a Hostess, let alone a Duchess. In the past, he did not often have to deal with her on such regular basis, or for such prolonged periods of time. But as his business in London could not be wrapped up quickly and neatly, he found himself obliged to endure her company, her pride, and her ill-manners. All of which she managed to show in full one spectacular morning, when the widow Tyrell and her sister-in-law, Lady Margaery Tully, paid her a visit.

“We were just talking of my father’s bill, Your Grace” said Lady Tully when he'd arrived. She was as beautiful as her brother, the late Colonel, had been, with delicate features and pretty almond eyes. But unlike the Colonel, who was all friendliness and good nature, Lady Tully was a politician in every sense of the word, and a Whig to boot. Stannis was prone to mistrust her, though he could not help but support her current endeavor. Having lost a beloved member of their family, the Tyrells were keen to pass a law to fund a medical corps, to prevent further unnecessary deaths. Stannis, who considered his soldiers the finest and bravest, heartily approved.

“Ha!” said Stannis, for lack of anything better to say. His gaze drifted to Mrs. Tyrell, who was still dressed in full black, despite having just recently marked her seventh month of mourning.

“We are finally sure of the Lords,” said Mrs. Tyrell, unable to hide her relief and pleasure.

“Are you, by God?” Stannis was pleased. He had not believed the Lords would be so easily persuaded. “Who else has agreed?”

Lady Tully reported, “The Earl of Dorne was so obliging as to agree to support it last night, which gives us a majority there.”

“I am glad to see you succeeded,” said Stannis. “Any fears for the Commons?”

“Quite a few, as we are asking them to spend money.” Lady Tully’s smile was that of a sphinx.

“Sometimes I really cannot understand our priorities as a nation!” Mrs. Tyrell was more animated than Stannis had seen her since the Colonel’s passing. “We will vote to pay off Prince Viserys’ gambling debts but not to give bandages to men wounded in defence of king and country.”

“You must recall that most soldiers go into the profession for lack of other option,” said Lady Tully. “It has been some work getting their lordships to recall that their sons and brothers and cousins are the officers of these men and therefore share in their deprivations and injuries, too. I suppose they are more used to thinking ‘what an excellent place to send this poacher’ than anything else, when they think of the army.”

“Your common soldier may be the scum of the earth, but we turn them into very fine fellows,” observed Stannis, allowing himself a note of pride.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Tyrell, brightening a little. “At Hougoumont, it wasn’t merely my husband and Lieutenant-Colonel Hightower who barred the gate, but a corporal Jory Cassel of the Coldstream Guards. He really seems to have been a wonderful soldier; everyone I talked to about Hougoumont was so impressed with him. I think he only fell out of line once, to rescue his brother from the fire.”

“And then fell right back into line,” agreed Stannis.

“Whatever happened to him? Is he still with the Coldstream Guards?”

“Yes. I made him a sergeant.”

“I am so glad!” said Mrs. Tyrell. But it was a happiness not unmixed with melancholy, Stannis could clearly see. He wondered if she ever considered what promotion Colonel Tyrell might have met with, had he survived. _I would have seen him knighted for gallantry_ , he wanted to assure her, but could not bring himself to, and lapsed into silence.

Lady Tully, having seemingly realized the Duchess had not spoken in some time, addressed her, “I suppose His Grace has told you of our bill?”

“Oh yes, though I am afraid I did not follow it all,” said Selyse, petulant as a spoilt child being quizzed by a tutor. “I do not much like politics; I do not pretend otherwise. It seems to me full of men yelling at each other to no purpose. I really cannot understand how anyone can enjoy it, unless they are mad.”

Stannis involuntarily let out an irritated huff. Lady Tully struggled to hide her offense at this unintentional insult.

Mrs. Tyrell tried to bridge this awkward gap by leaning forward, to say, in a confidential tone, “To tell you the truth, Your Grace, I am not particularly enamoured of politicking either! So much of it relies on being perfectly polite and agreeable to people you despise, and it is sometimes difficult for me to hide what I think.”

“No,” said Stannis, dryly. “You astonish me, Mrs. Tyrell.”

Mrs. Tyrell smiled brightly at him. “Indeed, one must get over one’s displeasure for necessity’s sake. We live in such political times! What is discussed in Parliament one day can shape what is in your kitchen cupboard the next. I have a positive horror of sugar now, unless I know it comes from a plantation run by free men.”

The Duchess looked confused. Stannis was growing increasingly embarrassed on her behalf.

Lady Tully said, in the honeyed voice he had seen her use on Lord Tully to get her way, “Oh, I am glad you were spared this knowledge until now, my dear, but really it is very shocking what happens to slaves on sugar plantations. I can get you a pamphlet on the subject, the next time I visit my friend and dear sister-in-law, Miss Arya Stark. She is a very noted abolitionist.”

“Oh, there is no need. I daresay I would not have the time to read it.” said Selyse. Stannis realized he was grinding his teeth, and forced himself to cease.

Giving up on having a sensible conversation with the participation of his wife, he confined himself to talking of old battles with Mrs. Tyrell and then, when Lady Tully had got over her offense enough to speak more, forced himself to talk to her of politics and society. The Duchess spoke a little then, though mostly to interrupt with something inane, or to fuss over her husband and ask if he was comfortable, if he was close enough to the fire, if he was hungry or thirsty, or if he required this or that unnecessary object.

When the requisite fifteen minutes of a society visit were up, Stannis was not surprised, though slightly saddened, to see Mrs. Tyrell and Lady Tully rise with haste.

“Allow me to show you out,” said Stannis. He himself draped the cloak of sables about Mrs. Tyrell’s shoulders, and bent to whisper in her ear, “I’m damned sorry for that. The Duchess is the silliest woman in England.”

“I know of a few others who could probably win in such a contest,” replied Mrs. Tyrell, slightly turning to smile at him. Stannis allowed the left side of his face to twitch. It was as much a smile as he was ever likely to display.

“You must learn to ignore her, as I do. It is the only way of getting on.”

Lady Tully had been watching them whisper to each other out of the corner of her eye and only after they were done, did she say, as she pulled on the cuffs of her gloves, “I regret to say that we will not be able to repay Your Grace’s visits quite so often as we would like, but really, with the bill we have so many claims upon our time!” She raised her eyes from her gloves and smiled beatifically. “But you are always welcome at Riverrun House,”, that being her husband’s, the Earl of Riverrun, address in London, and where the widow Tyrell was residing. “Indeed, we do hope to see you at dinner this evening.”

Stannis had not planned on dining out. But Mrs. Tyrell was standing very close to him, and her eyes were particularly fine today. “You may count on it,” Stannis found himself saying, with a stiff bow. “And indeed, accept my apologies for the Duchess’s remarks. I seldom share any of her opinions, and on these matters, not at all.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Lady Tully, sounding not at all mollified.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had meant to talk sensibly to his wife, with hope she would come to realize she owed Lady Tully an apology. But after spending years of talking to each other only for the purposes of relaying some tidbit of information, their conversation, sadly, quickly deteriorated. By the end they had hurled at one another quite a few hurtful truths, not the least of which was that they were two of the least compatible persons to ever walk the earth. The parting blow was particularly painful –- their only daughter, Shireen. She was a gentle girl, but likely to be his only heir, and Stannis was determined she’d not be as useless as her mother. The girl had a private tutor, and was studying a wide array of subjects, including mathematics and finance. Selyse accused him of ruining her chances by having her educated in a manner more befitting a Lord than a Lady.

He had left the house in a huff, eager to escape it and its occupant. But when the servant showed him into the parlor, he was astonished to discover the Tullys and Mrs. Tyrell in the company of none other than his own younger brother, Lord Renly Baratheon.

For most of the evening, Stannis found himself struck dumb, his famed eloquence reduced to the use of monosyllables. He had no idea when, precisely, Mrs. Tyrell had made the acquaintance, though he did recall Renly had been on good terms with the Tyrells, and therefore must have known Lady Tully well before her wedding to Lord Edmure. Nor had he been aware his brother and his former lover’s widow were on such friendly terms. But Renly, rake that he was, seemed utterly unconcerned. He spent the night regaling their small company with tales of his travels, and his easy manner seemed to draw Mrs. Tyrell out, for she smiled and laughed a great deal and seemed very close to being happy.

It was only later in the evening, during a round of vignt-et-une, and only after Renly made some poor excuse and scampered off, that Stannis managed to put his jumbled thoughts into words.

“By the by, I was unaware of your connection to my brother, Mrs. Tyrell,” he managed to say, careful to keep his gaze fixed on the cards in his hand.

“Were you not? Truly?” Mrs. Tyrell sounded very sincere and very confused. “I always assumed Lord Baratheon must have told you, but we’ve been fast friends these past three years. He is a most agreeable companion, that is when he can be bothered to visit.”

At Stannis’ look of mild outrage, Mrs. Tyrell let out a gentle laugh. “Fie, Your Grace! certainly not in the manner you seem to think! I only meant to say he is my friend, just as you are.” 

Stannis cleared his throat uncomfortably, wondering if anything more ought to be said. Mrs. Tyrell seemed to think so, for she added, “In truth, Your Grace, I do not believe that any man who was so loved by the Colonel could ever be anything but dear to me.”

 _And that was the short and long of it, wasn’t it?_ Stannis marveled. For Mrs. Tyrell had been the Colonel’s soulmate, his true match, and as such was seemingly capable of loving all of him, even the part that had belonged to another man. Not for the first time, Stannis found himself envious of the Colonel, though he quickly shook off such uncharitable thoughts. For the Colonel was dead, and his widow sat across from him even now, smiling at him and calling him her friend. And so Stannis might’ve been content to spend the entire evening, had a messenger not come to deliver a note from his lawyer, warning him that Selyse had filed for divorce.


	4. In Which Confessions are Made - 1816

Once more, a Baratheon man was asked to step aside and divorce his wife, to have the world know he’d married someone not his match, someone who’d _found_ her match while married to him. _What a mess_. At least Robert’s wife, Lyanna, found her soulmate in the Crown Prince. The scandal had the entire peerage in an uproar, but Robert somehow came out of it the image of a perfect gentleman, willing to gallantly step aside in service of the Realm. Selyse found her soulmate in their daughter’s tutor. _Good God_. And now she demanded Stannis present himself before a judge and reveal his mark. The woman knew the damage it would cause, how people might deliberately misinterpret his mark. And she went ahead anyway.

“I ought to have overcome my pride,” said Stannis to Mrs. Tyrell, as they sat together before the fire an evening later. “years ago. Or bent the rules of propriety and asked to compare our marks before marrying. In the past seven or eight years it’s become so normal a part of courtship. But I was sure— I was so very sure.”

“Why, sir?” Mrs. Tyrell asked.

Stannis looked at her thoughtfully, and made an abrupt decision. After all, Selyse had filed for divorce on account of them not being a true match, and if Melisandre would be brought in as witness… “Well! If my lawyer doesn’t bring this off, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Your Grace?”

They were sequestered in Highgarden house, where some modicum of privacy could still by achieved. His lawyer was somewhere about the house, negotiating with some lawyer who claimed to represent the Duchess Dragonstone and her soulmate, a Mr. _Stan_ Jameson. _Ha!_ After glancing at the rest of the party, and seeing them engaged in some occupation or other, Stannis pulled back his sleeve to reveal rather an ugly armlet, of the sort that had been very briefly popular for men to wear ten years ago. “Selyse gave it to me, as a wedding present,” he said, looking at it with a tense expression. He unclasped it. ‘ _Florent_ ’ curled about his wrist.

“Oh sir,” said Mrs. Tyrell.

“You realize just why now, I was so set on Selyse?” he asked.

“Colonel Tyrell’s mark said ‘ _Stark_ ’. I understand your circumstances much better than you think.” She hesitated, and moved her evening bracelet up her wrist to reveal to him, for the second time, the ‘ _Tyrell_ ’ curling over the translucent skin of her wrist. It was as moving as it had been seven months ago, when she had been inconsolable with grief. “I know nothing I can say will be of the slightest use, but please believe that I feel for you exceedingly.”

“It was Davos,” said Stannis, abruptly, trying to cut off the wave of grief that threatened to drown him. _How could death hurt so much, so long after it had occurred?_ Davos had died in the Battle of New Orleans, last January. “I ought to have realized.”

“Your Grace?” asked Mrs. Tyrell.

“Colonel Davos Florent, Baron Seaworth, Selyse’s second cousin. One of my dearest friends. The Florents are a large family. It could have been any of them— but I did— I had set my mind on Selyse. I thought it had to be her. I could not admit to being wrong. It was Davos’ friendship— not Selyse’s affection, which doesn't appear to have lasted long— that changed my life for the better. It refers to him.”

Stannis found he could not go on. He was infuriated at his sheer idiocy in never having realized, in never having questioned what he had been taught, in never considering that the friendship that had been the lynchpin of his entire emotional life had been so for a reason until well after he had married Selyse. God, he missed Davos as amputees missed limbs. There was an ache he could never soothe, as he stumbled on through life in this maddeningly stupid way, as everything he had worked for fell to pieces.

Mrs. Tyrell sat across from him, her gold shawl the only splash of color about her pale figure in its customary blacks. _Baratheon colors_ , his mind supplied. Her own left wrist lay in her lap, her mark exposed. His first impulse was to see his own grief mirrored back, but then he realized that it was something much deeper. Mrs. Tyrell entirely understood what he felt, for she felt the same thing. One had only to look at her to see how the loss of her soulmate had devastated her.

Her modesty had caused her to merely move her evening bracelet up her forearm instead of removing it entirely— or perhaps it was merely that what she used to cover her mark had not been tainted in her eyes. She had on a jet mourning bracelet, one he had often seen her wear. Stannis decided there and then to finally toss aside the hideously dated armlet Selyse had gotten him. He had only taken it off three or four times since she had tied in on, as they had both decided, out of panic, and pride, to continue on in what they already knew was going to be a disaster of a marriage. There was no good reason for his having kept it on all those years. Misplaced sentiment and— mostly pride, if he was going to be honest with himself. And he very much needed to be.

“I think we in England are overly exacting in our definition of a soulmate,” said Mrs. Tyrell. “Perhaps we are right in that it refers to some great love, but I do not think that love necessarily has to be romantic, or sexual, as it was for me. The Greeks after Plato said a soulmark ought to be only an outward sign of the greatest friendship of one’s life.”

Stannis gratefully seized this conversational lifeline. “The Italians have it that your mark is the name of the person who will save your life. And so Davos did, at Bussaco, in ‘10, and he damned well saved the Battle of Salamanca for me. I never loved Davos as I thought I did Selyse, but he was the best friend I had in this world.” He looked hard at his mark, struggling to seem stoic when his overwhelming impulse was to weep. Too much depended on his keeping a tight rein on himself. “I have but one consolation, when I think of his passing: that he died as he lived, in the honorable discharge of his duty, and as distinguished a soldier as a man. I could have wrung Sir Axell Florent's neck myself when I heard a proper account of the action. Forcing Davos and his men to charge against an army in a fortified position without weakening the defenses at all! The Navy was damned useless.”

The fury at least kept him going, which was not an uncommon reaction. Then Mrs. Tyrell did something Stannis never expected. She reached out to him—

—and gently laid the fingertips of her left hand on his bare left wrist.

Stannis looked involuntarily up at her, trying to hide his shock, and to take in her expression, of deep understanding, of untainted compassion.

He had never exposed himself like this— literally or figuratively— to anyone but Davos, and even then they had had their own shorthand and codes, to keep from revealing vulnerabilities when they could ill afford to let down their guards. Stannis hardly knew why he had confessed all this to Mrs. Tyrell anyhow. Possibly because it was do that or weep over Davos and he could not do that, not here, not now that Selyse was pressing on his weaknesses to break free of their marriage, no matter if she broke him in the process.

“A good death does not lessen the anguish of losing one’s soulmate,” Mrs. Tyrell said, softly. “I know.”

Dear soul— she did. Stannis took her hand. It felt cold and small in his own, but she pressed his hand, as if to comfort him. His surprise took on a different shape, that he had recklessly shown her this ugly, brittle part of himself and she had compassionately revealed a similar wound, and given his hidden grief all the weight of her public mourning. Stannis said, hoping for the same show of understanding, “It’s always in the little things, isn’t it, that make you realize quite how alone you now are.”

She nodded. “Every time it seems one has mapped the full shape of the absence, it seems to expand.”

“One almost begins to fear it can never be mapped; never really fully understood.”

There came a knock at the door, but he could not bring himself to release her hand. He had thought he would never experience something like this ever again, not after Davos’ death. Stannis had been a fool in many ways over the years, but he was now struck by his foolishness anew, in thinking Mrs. Tyrell only a gentle lady. She had gone through the same refiner’s fire as he had, been dented by the same blows. He had always known her to be a clever woman, well worthy of her husband’s adoration. How had he failed to realize that in her, especially after their mutual losses, he might find one of his truest friends?

He squeezed her hand and rose, saying, with a tight, barely-there smile, “Well my dear, if all else goes to hell, at least I’ve come out of this with someone with whom I can say literally anything and be understood. That is no small thing.”

“I said I would stand your friend, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Tyrell. She had, late last night, when his world seemed all but doomed to burn. “I always will.”

Good God, but he believed her.


	5. In Which the Duke Acknowledges Two Political Masterminds

Stannis entered Riverrun House with his mind occupied with wars on a half-a-dozen fronts. _As if peacekeeping in France was not enough!_ While their lawyers had reached a compromise, Stannis was banished from his own home until the financial tangles of Selyse’s affairs were properly settled and their divorce final. Shireen was taking her parents’ divorce quietly, as she was wont to do, but Stannis, who made a point spending time with her each afternoon, could see the strain taking its toll on his gentle daughter. Though it was Selyse who’d filed for divorce, Stannis felt the guilt keenly, knowing he had his share of the blame for their mutual unhappiness. On top of that, he had the eyes of society upon him, ready to attack if he gave them any opening. That he had avoided having his soulmark revealed to the public was fortunate—indeed, his lawyer deserved a medal for having come up with the clever idea of having the happy couple reveal _their_ marks to a judge, to satisfy their being a true match, rather than forcing Stannis to reveal his own— but it was hardly enough to hold the rumors, cartoons and whispers at bay.

Stannis was not too proud to acknowledge he was damned lucky to have been in Riverrun house and in the presence of Lady Tully when the missive had come. There was no better strategist when it came to society battles, and her unexpected willingness to fight on his behalf had been a relief. He was politician enough to know she did not do this out of the kindness of her heart, but felt that, all in all, she had proven herself a worthy ally. He was prepared to support her endeavors in return, provided she did not go too far and ask him to declare himself a Whig.

He now asked the footman to take him to her, and was not surprised to find Lady Tully arranging flowers in the parlor. The complicated arrangement of hothouse blooms— most of which Stannis could not recall ever having seen before— seemed her way of organizing her thoughts before a social battle. Over the past few weeks he’d observed that whenever she was plotting some complicated bit of business, he always found her arranging.

The sight now filled him with confidence, and he was unsurprised to find Mrs. Tyrell, her protégé in all things, looking very fine and cheerfully playing with some roses on the table. Mrs. Tyrell was in remarkably good spirits— indeed better spirits than he had seen her since her husband had died.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What has you so cheerful, Mrs. Tyrell?”

“She has merely had her Battle of Salamanca,” said Lady Tully, not looking up from the flowers she was arranging. “It was really quite brilliant.”

“I learnt strategy from the best,” said Mrs. Tyrell, with an enigmatic smile. Stannis frowned in suspicion, uncertain if she meant to flatter him, or Lady Tully. Lady Tully’s look of satisfaction clearly indicated she thought the compliment was directed at her.

“I ran into your sister-in-law, the Countess of Storm’s End, in a bookstore yesterday, talking as if all the worst pamphlets and cartoons were right, and doubting if you really were visiting veterans in your free time,” Mrs. Tyrell raised her fine blue eyes to his, with an impish attempt to look innocent.

He had indeed gone with Mrs. Tyrell to visit some veterans, only a week past. It was partially an attempt to escape the constant gossip of London—he had been appalled to discover how quickly honorable men deteriorated into fishwives at the mere hint of a scandal—and partially his seizing an opportunity to spend a morning in Mrs. Tyrell’s company. That Cersei saw fit to imply he was spending his time more pleasantly with the widow Tyrell did not surprise him in the least; he had been expecting censure for quite some time. His preference for the widow was well-known by now, and it seemed only her sweet, pure nature, and the knowledge she was so very heartbroken over the death of her soulmate, had kept the vultures from openly declaring her his new mistress. Stannis was, to his own private surprise, not concerned in the least. As long as the rumors focused on him relentlessly seeking her company, which he decidedly did, without attempting to sully her good name, he was oddly content to carry on as they have.

“I really could not let her go on thinking all my army friends were purely imaginary,” said Mrs. Tyrell, beatifically. “So I rushed over and loudly thanked the Countess for her kindness in offering to visit all my friends there. And really, sir, the Countess’ kindness knew no bounds, for by the time I had finished talking, she had not only agreed to come with me today, but agreed to help dear Margaery in a charity bazaar or something of the sort, to build a hospital for veterans of the Spanish campaigns.”

Stannis was hard put not to laugh. He had a very clear image of Mrs. Tyrell rushing across a bookstore, a determined gleam in her eyes, and cornering Cersei. “And did she come with you today?” He tried, but for the life of him could not imagine Countess Cersei Baratheon, daughter of Duke Lannister, spending even a minute in the company of his men.

“Why, yes!” Mrs. Tyrell’s tone was sweet as honey, but the gleam in her eyes was practically feral. Stannis felt a thrum of heavy arousal flow through him. _By God, she was magnificent._ “It really did one’s heart good, to see her listen to all the very graphic recollections of field amputations. Everyone there was able to tell their stories, sparing no detail. By the end of the visit the Countess agreed to help sponsor a hospital.” She beamed at him. “Oh, it makes my heart sing to know all she is doing on behalf of my friends.”

_Now that was routing one’s enemy!_ He could not quite hide his astonishment; he knew Mrs. Tyrell to be a very capable officer’s wife, and a dear friend of Lady Tully, but he had not anticipated how those two factors could make quite so formidable an adversary.

His face must have revealed something of his thoughts, for Mrs. Tyrell laughed at him. “Why do you look at me so?”

“I have entirely underestimated you,” Stannis admitted. “My God, Mrs. Tyrell, I rather owe you an apology for never having realized before the true extent of your abilities.”

Mrs. Tyrell beamed at the praise. Thank God she was his partisan. He would be routed without her— and, he thought, with a stir of appreciation for the blush rising to her fair cheek— he really could not have bourn it, to see her fighting for anyone but himself.

Lady Tully, in the meanwhile, had been frowning at the roses she was holding up for quite some time. But when asked what had her so thoughtful said merely, “I am not quite sure yet. There are more possibilities here than I had initially thought.” She offered them her sphinx’s smile. “But, I daresay with a little effort, and some careful arranging on my part, the end result will please everybody.”


	6. In Which an Understanding is Reached

Mrs. Tyrell stood before a painting depicting her and her late husband, the Colonel, with tears in her eyes.

“My dear,” said Stannis, with no small amount of feeling. He had been calling her so for several weeks now, and was usually rewarded for this familiarity with a dazzling smile. Not so now, though. She was too lost to grief. It was to be expected, Stannis reckoned. Their bill had gone through, and, as often occurred when a battle was over, all strength had seemingly rushed out of her body, leaving the widow a mere empty, heartbroken shell. How he longed to take her in his arms! To offer, in some small way, the comfort she had effortlessly afforded him these past two months.

Mrs. Tyrell looked away from the painting, and tried to dash the tears off her cheeks with the palm of her hand.

“You really ought to investigate this wonderful new invention of ours called a handkerchief,” said Stannis dryly, coming up and offering her his. Mrs. Tyrell could not even manage a smile, so he stopped the attempt to tease her out of her mood and said, “Sometimes the cost of the battle only hits us after the victory. I still recall being woken in the early hours of the 19th, to be read the list of the dead.”

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Tyrell, trying for a smile. “I was angry enough at Mr. Baelish characterization of me to stave off the worst of it but now...”

_Ah, yes._ Lord Petyr Baelish, the prime minister, was the second husband of the widow Arryn, Mrs. Tyrell’s aunt on her mother’s side. The man had carried a very nonsensical speech in the House, painting Mrs. Tyrell as some delicate, broken jewel, in need of polish and care, robbed of all sense due to her grief. Never before had so many pretty words been used to call a woman unfit to promote legislation on military matters. Even now, Stannis could not recall the speech without huffing in irritation. He had been compelled to make a speech in turn, the essence of which was ‘I am the Duke of Dragonstone, victor of Waterloo, Field Marshal of England, Generalissimo of Spain, Head of the Anglo-Allied Army governing France, etc. Do you really want to contradict me on military affairs?’ 

“Yes, I was rather wondering if he had ever met you before today, by the end of his speech." said Stannis. "What was it he called you, _a delicate rose of English femininity_?”

“A strong gust of wind could have blown _that_ Mrs. Tyrell away.” Her complaint lacked bite. To his ears, she sounded tired and miserable. But at least she was no longer crying; she folded up Stannis’ handkerchief and made a vague move to give it back.

Stannis observed her a moment and then, surrendering to what they both so clearly needed, said in a tone of gentle command, “Come here, my dear.”

She seemed to act on the tone of his voice alone, before really parsing the words, and was enfolded in his arms before understanding his invitation. He was pleased, and more than a little intrigued by the predilections her response revealed.

He was also extremely surprised at how good it felt; what comfort there was in being able to offer something in return. To make this woman feel, however temporarily, that she was safe and well-protected, guarded against the thousand slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

“And really, Mr. Baelish should be ashamed of himself, daring to proclaim a proud Scot ought to be stoic.” said Stannis, and was gratified to feel Mrs. Tyrell laugh again the lapel of his coat.

“If I have to hear another man explain to me how I should grieve, I will scream.” His answering laugh was more movement than sound, and Mrs. Tyrell, _Sansa_ , pulled back enough to say, more clearly, “It is not something that comes naturally to me. I know— I know it is how I ought to be, but there sometimes seems so vast a gulf between what ought to be and what is, I do not know how to bridge it. I would rather be alone and allowed to grieve as I feel, than to be in company having to suppress it.”

“Not to worry, my dear, I won’t ever make you sit next to your uncle-in-law.”

“Or go back to the drawing room tonight, I hope?”

“That either. I was…” He hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was proposing to keep you company.”

“I should be very grateful, sir,” said Sansa, and Stannis felt a profound rush of relief. “It is a comfort, in some ways, that you called so soon after my husband died. I cannot much disgrace myself before you. I must have looked half-wild. I do not think I even bothered to cover my mark.”

“Your appearance was the last thing on my mind that day.”

“Put in my place very neatly!”

“I meant to reassure you, my dear. I was more struck by the proof of your devotion to Colonel Tyrell than your appearance. As I am now.”

The lapsed into silence for a moment, enjoying their small bubble of warmth.

“Let us go to your parlor then,” said Stannis, pulling back with some effort and offering her his arm. Sansa managed a laugh, or something like it, and together they retired.

In her parlor, Stannis offered a round of vignt-et-une, to help distract her. Stannis had never seen her play quite so badly; she was staring at the cards in her left hand unseeing, her right hand resting upon the tabletop.

He reached out and put his hand over hers. “You haven't the temperament of a gambler, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps we best stop the attempt.”

“You don't either.”

“No, I am more a defensive tactician.”

“I recall your saying that the mark of a good general was knowing when to retreat and having the courage to do it.” She splayed her cards upon the table. “I give up. Basic math is beyond me. Counting to twenty-one is impossible. I hate this... this particular part of grief. I cannot do anything. When I was in Brussels, just after— that is, when I last felt like this— I couldn't even remember everyone’s addresses. I could not recall where Highgarden House was in London. I feel stupid from the weight of it.”

Stannis ran his thumb lightly over her knuckles. “It will get easier in time.”

“It is rather hard to bear now.”

He studied her a moment and then said, in a voice of gentle command, “I think you need to be taken out of yourself, my dear. I’ll take you on a long ride tomorrow.”

Sansa seemed to be thinking it over. “I have not been as active as I usually am; I think that is perhaps why this has hit me quite as hard as it did.”

Stannis privately agreed with her, and it did a certain amount of good to have something to look forward to— though only a certain amount. He continued to gently stroke her hand.

“The loss of a soulmate is not easily got over. I know.”

“I did not expect it to be this bad again.”

“There is an ebb and flow to it, my dear,” said Stannis. “I confess, I had wondered if there might be a sudden tidal wave for you today. You have been a model of self-control, but that is strain enough to overpower anybody.”

“And I am not anybody?” Sansa asked.

He dearly hoped his look was capable of encompassing the warmth and admiration he felt for this woman. “I think you will know you are not.”

They fell into their usual pattern of easy conversation, though it felt almost absent-minded. Sansa was not replying with her usual spirit, and he soon realized that this was not working to cheer her.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she said, after a moment.

“Don't be,” he said, with a lip quirk that might be mistaken for a smile. “I am merely an old campaigner used to throwing all I have at difficult circumstances; I must try everything before waving the white flag.” Stannis attempted this again with a smirk and a smooth, “And the temptation of your company is too great to resist. I find myself giving in whenever I see you.”

Sansa could not yet manage a laugh but almost managed to smile. “I have been wondering, Your Grace, to what end you say these things. You see for yourself that I am not entirely over my husband.”

“No, nor do I expect you to be, or mean to push you towards anything you are not ready for. I do it mostly for my own enjoyment.”

“Mostly?”

His look was eloquent enough to make her blush.

“Sir, I...”

“I do not mean to press if the idea of it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Not... uncomfortable, sir, merely uncertain. I was married young; I do not think I kissed a man outside of parlor games until Colonel Tyrell proposed to me. And then... I was married to my soulmate. I had no need or inclination to look elsewhere. I am not... I had not...”

He had pushed her, both of them in truth, too far. What should have been unmentioned, unacknowledged, was now laid bare between them. She would ask him to leave, and never return, she would…

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, unsteadily.

He tried to keep the sadness out of his voice. “Yes, my dear.”

“I....” She blushed deeply. “I do not think what you are proposing uncommon or— or even immoral— not now, at least— for we are both unattached and without hope of seeing our soulmates again, but I— I have never done anything like this before and it....”

“My dear,” said Stannis, with feeling. Hot relief, and a sense of excited hope, suffused his body.

“I do not know,” said Sansa, uncertainly, “how one goes about...” Then, all flushed and flustered, looked up at him and said, “The risks to myself are much greater, sir, and I—”

He gently squeezed her hand. “You may trust me, my dear. I shall take care of you. I respect and care for you too much to see any harm come to you out of whatever fondness you have for me.”

A hot flush rose up her chest and neck, quite different from her usual blushes. Stannis regarded its progress thoughtfully, his air that of quiet interest, tinged with satisfaction. For several long minutes, Sansa was too embarrassed to do more than blush. Then, she managed, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“My dear, do not thank me for something I have wanted for some weeks now,” he said dryly.

“You know what I mean,” she said, though she blushed deeply, obviously flattered by the compliment.

“My dear,” he replied, feeling a rare smile rise to his lips, “ I would not have it any other way. Your independence— and I must admit, your gentleness— is its own allure.”

“I have already agreed sir, there is no reason to keep flattering me like this.”

“Your blush was beginning to fade.”

Sansa surprised both of them with a laugh. “You are a rogue sir. I never expected you to be. I promise to blush as much as you like; indeed, I am not sure if I could help it.”

Stannis was aware he was smiling like a fool, but could not quite bring himself to stop. Her following words, however, were sobering. “I have decided to trust you, Your Grace.” Sansa said. “Do not make me regret it.”

There was a warmth to her gaze that made Stannis achingly aware of how much he had missed being physically intimate with someone. Had she ever been lovelier to him than in this very moment, so open and trusting, and almost withing his reach?

“I assure you on that point, my dear,” Stannis replied. “You will not regret this at all. I shall personally ensure it.”


	7. In Which the Duke and the Widow Tyrell Embark on a Liaison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut?
> 
> Smut!
> 
> Nothing but Smut.

Despite his earlier boldness, Stannis found himself restlessly pacing about the room in a dressing gown, having dismissed his manservant for the evening. None had seemed surprised when the Duke announced Mrs. Tyrell was exhausted by the day’s happenings and has chosen to make use of her room in Highgarden House. He himself had been invited to stay by Earl Highgarden at tea time, and was now grateful for having accepted despite his general dislike of the boisterous, ridiculous man.

A gentle, timid knock had him rushing to the door; he had pulled it open before a second knock could fall lest the dear girl lose her nerve and slip his grasp.

The sight of her was, to his mind, more erotic than perhaps warranted. She had put very little effort into her appearance, which he hoped was a sign of impatience, rather than dispassion. Her long hair was already falling out of her sleeping braid, and under a rather hideous Kashmir shawl of yellow and gold, her long cambric nightgown hinted at a very pleasing form. Stannis hoped his gaze properly conveyed his appreciation as he held open the door for her.

“Déshabillé suits you my dear,” said Stannis, quietly shutting the door behind him. Having reached this unexpected point in their relationship, one he’d never fully allowed himself to imagine, he was past censuring himself. She was, quite possibly, the most stunning woman of his acquaintance, and deserved to be told so. The added benefit of watching her blush as red as her hair was also extremely gratifying.

Sansa looked about, seemingly unsure of where to put herself or what to do. She stood by the fire, her gaze resting lightly on the settee before her, the tidy dressing table, the used shaving things laid out by pitcher and bowl, and then a shy, pleased smile graced her lips.

Stannis had shaved for her; she had mentioned once, in passing, that she disliked the feeling of stubble. While Colonel Tyrell could go days without a proper shave, Stannis rather thought the delicacy of her complexion could very well mean that she would go about the next day looking as if she had a rash wherever he had kissed her. A very pleasing thought, indeed, but one too risky to indulge. He had given her his word her reputation would not suffer, and he was very much a man of his word.

Having locked the door Stannis turned and, seeing her hugging about herself the bright blue shawl with its gold medallions, said, “My dear, I can merely bear you company tonight, if that is what you wish.” It was not _his_ wish, but he was not a savage, and had no pleasure in the thought of taking that which was not willingly offered.

The dear girl seemed to struggle for a moment, uncertain, then said, “Your Grace, you must not take my hesitance for unwillingness. It is— it is merely inexperience. As I told you, I have only ever known Colonel Tyrell.”

“Which reminds me—” Stannis could not believe the thought had only occurred to him now, “have you a way of preventing pregnancy? I doubt you have ever had to think of it before—”

Her blush deepened. “I have— to both, sir. It’s a— the morning after I make a receipt Mrs. Payne gave me. Moon tea has worked for all the years I was married, and it hasn't failed her yet.”

“Sit with me a moment, now that's settled,” said he, going to the settee. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

And the dear girl, so trusting and innocent, perched on the edge of the settee, really unsure how she ought to behave. Stannis wondered if she even had some parallel from her married life in mind, something to anchor her and give her confidence. By her trembling hands, he very much doubted she had ever been so bold. More likely the Colonel had always come to her.

But their situation was different. He, Stannis, was different. And he needed her to be sure of her want.

“A bit closer, my dear,” he urged, feeling amused.

She slid closer to him until her knee brushed his, and then looked at him uncertainly.

Stannis reached out and gently pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips lingered in her hair, softly stroked it in reassurance. “How lovely you are,” he murmured. For truly, he was hard pressed to recall if he’d ever seen a sight more lovely.

“Your Grace is very kind.”

Her continued use of his title under the circumstances was, much to his surprise, rather evoking. “His Grace is stating a fact,” he replied, very much in earnest. “May I kiss you, my dear?”

“I should very much like that, Your Grace,” she admitted.

He slid his fingertips down her jaw to her chin, and tilted her face up in order to kiss her— lightly, gently— almost a brush of lips rather than a kiss proper. Until she grew easy with this, and began to kiss him back, he did not otherwise touch her. He ventured then to move his hand from her chin, to stroke her jawline and the side of her neck, easing away the tension gathered there from anxiety and nerves and grief. She shifted a little, so that Stannis’ fingers trailed over the nape of her neck. This calmed her, turned her pliant in his embrace. Stannis, who prided himself on being observant, noticed this and stroked her there more deliberately.

She rather reminded him of a cat, being gently petted into trust and good humor. Appeased at last, he could feel her smiling into the kiss. “Good, my dear?” he murmured against her lips. Stannis had not anticipated quite how shy she would be, or how sweet— and just how satisfying it would be to coax her out of all ladylike reserve to see her lost to passion.

She made a faint noise of agreement. He made sure that touch and kiss alike were light and careful, but without a hint of hesitation; he did not rush, always waiting for her signal, a moan or an impatient shift, before advancing his assault. The intense satisfaction of having her in his arms put to shame any base urge he had felt before. Allowing himself to seek out more, he moved his left hand from the top of the settee and threaded it through her hair. The feel of it, silk against his calloused fingers, shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Sansa seemed to feel it too, shuddering in his grip.

“Are you cold, my dear?” he asked, pulling back slightly. He was trying very hard to contain a smile.

She favored him with an unamused look. “Sir, you know perfectly well I am not.”

“Good,” he said, moving his left hand from the nape of her neck to the top of her shawl. “For, pretty as this is, I think you could possibly do without it.”

Sansa looked down, and seemed a little surprised to still be holding it closed. She loosened her grip, and the edges of the shawl parted. Stannis slid it off her shoulders. It pooled about her hips, the gold medallions winking at him, as if in encouragement. He traced the fall of her shawl down her arms, until she shivered again and he said, in a tone of considerable satisfaction, “Come here, my dear, so that I may keep you warm.”

He put his arms about her waist, dragging her closer until she was pressed against him. Startled, the dear girl put her hands to his chest, but tilted her face up to be kissed again. Stannis obliged her with pleasure.

It had been a long time since he'd had the liberty to touch a woman so, and longer still since he’d felt such a thrill at being touched in turn. He kept himself very still as she tentatively ran her hands over his chest, until she gathered enough courage and momentum to seize the belt of his dressing gown and undo it. Very eager to help her, he quickly shrugged the robe away, and turned his attention to the buttons down the front of her night rail.

Her small hand covered his, halting his progress. Stannis raised his gaze back to her face, questioning. “I would prefer to keep it on,” Sansa said, blushing again. “It is very stupid scruple but it seems less... immodest this way.”

He had expected someone of Mrs. Tyrell’s modesty, and her general inexperience, to be awkward the first time around. He was well-prepared to accommodate her needs, and refused to feel disappointment over having been denied full access to her figure. “And you deny having any sense of feminine delicacy,” he teased her, hoping to come across as playful, rather than cross.

“Not a great deal,” she replied, bold little thing that she was, “for I am willing to be unbuttoned.”

Stannis lost no time, and looked appreciatively at the expanse of breast revealed. “May I touch?”

“You may touch whatever you like, Your Grace.”

“By God, Mrs. Tyrell,” he said admiringly, taking immediate advantage of this new privilege, “you do have the prettiest figure.”

“I am glad it pleases you, Your Grace,” Sansa replied, a little breathlessly, and closed her eyes when he bent his head to kiss her breasts. She threaded her hand through his short hair and sighed so prettily, and Stannis swore there and then that he would adore her as often as needed till she lost that last little shred of modesty. Why on earth, he thought dazedly, had he ever thought he ought not to do this? He had missed this, badly, and having this particular woman in his arms somehow heightened the whole experience. He had never been more content to have defied the rules of propriety.

When she began to arch impatiently against him, Stannis raised his head and put a hand to each thigh. He parted them with a quiet, “May I?”

Sansa nodded.

The first touch felt like a brand. Hot and wet and _God_ , but there was such satisfaction in this proof of her wanting. Her profound moan of relief, head tilted back and eyes closed, was even more flattering. Shy as she was, she attempted some form of an apology at how obviously she wanted him. Stannis could not contain his smugness and chuckled, asking just why she was apologizing for paying him such a compliment.

He dedicated himself to learning the shape of her, the pattern that pleased her best and the pressure that made her moan, and after a few minutes experimentation, he hit on a movement and rhythm that made her breath catch in her throat, and she began to be too full of pleasure to remember she ought to be shy. He put his free hand to her hair, pulling it out of its messy braid, and tangled his fingers in the loose strands as he kissed her, feeling his need rise.

She sighed against his lips, and admitted, in a very shy voice, that she very much enjoyed being held securely while petted and caressed in this manner. Stannis, who very much enjoyed the feel of a partner submitting, hid a groan in the curve of her neck. And when the dear girl began to squirm against him, he held her firmly in place, and whispered in her ear, mock-chidingly, “Now, now, my dear. Steady on.”

This seemed very much to thrill her, which in turn stirred his own arousal. She half-gasped for breath; his grip about her tightened, but his caress did not alter as the tension built deliciously and then peaked. She fell headlong into pleasure. The feeling of her tremors against his fingers was almost unbearably good; this was fast becoming one of the more intoxicating seductions of his life— her hesitations and blushes melting away under the force of his attentions, until she completely abandoned herself to him, determinedly chasing her pleasure atop him, crying and clinging to him.

“There you go,” he said, with satisfaction.

Sansa sank in boneless relaxation against his iron grip about her, still enjoying the last faint tremors of her release. He bent down and kissed her through the last of these. It was a long and idle kiss, soothing rather than stirring. He was feeling very smug and content, despite having barely allowed himself any stimulation so far. There was too much pleasure to be had in coaxing hers.

“Have another one in you?” he asked.

“Usually once is enough for me,” said Sansa, still a little out of breath.

“Indulge me, my dear?”

He resumed petting her, more out of absence of mind rather than in a determined pursuit of pleasure, but she seemed to like that well enough. She looked cozily well-looked after; even rather drowsy and content, and might have drifted off, if Stannis had not bent down and kissed her again. She rallied beautifully, and he pulled back to arch an eyebrow, leaving his question unspoken.

“If you insist , sir,” said Sansa, airily.

He did and carried his point, until she became quite desperate for him. Stannis, now determined to see them both sated, teased her quite mercilessly, until she could no longer bear it, and managed a tormented, “Your Grace, please!”

He did not stop kissing her, but moved his hand to grip her thigh and pulled her onto his lap, so that she straddled him. He was wildly impatient for her but could not yet bring himself to do more than grip her braid about his fingers and press her tightly against him. That earned him a gasp and a “Oh please sir, please, you must!”

“Just a moment,” he said, arranging their clothing to his satisfaction before slowly easing into her.

Sansa stifled a gasp.

“Alright, my dear?”

“It— it has been a while,” Sansa admitted, holding herself very still. “I've grown a little... unaccustomed to it, and you are quite...” her blush was too captivating, and Stannis captured her mouth in a hungry kiss, willing to let the sentence go unfinished.

He was still gripping her hips, the cambic of her nightgown bunched in his hands, but forced himself to lessen his hold on her. The cambric fell in crumpled folds down to the seat of the settee. “Go at your pace, my dear. You're the rider after all.”

Sansa’s face flamed.

He chuckled and stroked one hot cheek with the backs of his fingers, the other hand still at her waist. “Such modesty in the face of such immodest situations. I must shock you terribly.”

“Startle, not shock, sir,” corrected Sansa, bracing her hands against his shoulders. “I was married. And ladies are as capable of crudity as men. We just hide it from you, out of deference to your sensibilities.” She began carefully lowering herself down, to his great satisfaction; and rested flush against him, trying to adjust to the sensation. Stannis, too, needed a moment. The sensations now centered in his cock were so familiar and yet at the same time, so strangely different. To compare this to what he had shared with other women seemed absurd, but it was his only frame of reference— and yet the way he himself went about making love to her was so different in approach there wasn't enough similarity to make any kind of a coherent thesis. And then he was kissing her again, with enough force and skill to drive rational thought entirely from both their heads.

“Oh sir— this feels—” He reached between them to touch her and she let out a little cry of pleasure. “Oh, Your Grace!”

“That's it, my dear,” he murmured against her neck, as she gripped his shoulders and began moving against him more eagerly.

“Is it... are you...?”

He let out a soft groan as she sank down fully once again. “Chase your pleasure, darling; I am sure I shall find mine along the way.”

Stannis was determined to be helpful, and was eager to help her figure out how to move. He had already discovered how to touch her and how to speak to her, in order to drive her quite wild, and it was in seeing her lose her inhibitions and take charge that he began to lose control himself. His touch quickened, his breathing grew ragged. She pressed against him more tightly, the gaping collar of her night rail sliding off her shoulders, to his great pleasure. Stannis did not know if it was the welcome feeling of his spending within her that caused her to reach her peak herself, or if it was the desperate kiss she gave him as she felt her own peak approaching that caused him to reach his, but either way, the sensation was exquisite. He had forgotten how much better this was with another person; he had forgotten how the intimacy of heart and mind could so combine with that of the body as to make one feel utterly satiated and cared for, to make one feel as if one could die from the pleasure of something, and yet be brought back to oneself feeling fully renewed.

Afterwards she clung to him for some time, in a daze, as he stroked her hair and held her close.

Eventually, the sweet girl rallied enough to raise her head and say, “Good God , Your Grace.”

“Always happy to please,” Stannis replied, amused, twirling a loose curl of her hair about his index finger. He kissed her once again and said, “I cannot quite bring myself to part with you yet. Will you stay a little longer?”

“I am not sure I can do this again,” she admitted. Stannis was dangerously close to openly laughing.

He settled for a chuckle. “I had in mind the more innocent definition of sleeping.”

She shifted her head only enough to bring the bed within her line of sight, and blushed to admit she wasn't entirely sure her legs could even carry her that far.

“You do know how to pay a man a pretty compliment,” said Stannis, smirking.

Later, as she drowsed sweetly against his side, Stannis thought to himself, yet again, that he had underestimated her. Really, he ought to have learned by now not to underestimate Sansa Stark Tyrell.

True, there had been a little awkwardness at first, but she was too graceful a person, too well versed in keeping her balance on battlefields and in ballrooms to ever be permanently overset.

Sansa stirred against his side, her fiery hair loose across the pillow. Stannis looked down at her with a contentment mixed, not with smugness as he had expected, but with a stir of strange tenderness. The dear girl trusted him. She trusted him utterly, with herself, and what was more, with her reputation.

Full up of fondness, Stannis moved a little, to try and get the pillow back under her head— but the darling girl, his determined Mrs. Tyrell— she had decided he was the best pillow available. She put her arm about him and drew closer, until she could lay her head on his chest.

Stannis realized then and there that he would rather die than disappoint her.


	8. In Which Birthday Gifts are Exchanged

He had never been fond of France, or the French. But never before did he consider himself as making a sacrifice while carrying out his duty as he now did. Stannis had always been an unsentimental and pragmatic person, and here he was, eager for the flimsiest excuse which might serve as reason to leave his post in France, and demanding any post from London be brought to him immediately. He felt absurdly young again, made almost foolish by infatuation. At least he had no fear of smart remarks, or speculation where he could hear it. Though Stannis was obliged to be, if not outright polite (which was not in his nature), at least somewhat civil when out in society, with his staff he felt no such compunctions. The useless young layabouts who had been assigned to him out of influence or interference would never learn or take their duties seriously unless he bit their heads off, and the actually useful members of his staff learned from the example Stannis made of their idiot colleagues.

The new aide filling in for Massey (Massey’s wife was ill again, or possibly just bored, and needed her husband to attend her) came in, and set a stack of letters on the desk. The aide looked halfway terrified already when he said, “The post from London, sir. There is, um, considerable post from elsewhere sir—”

“And is my standing order to bring _all_ my mail to me as soon as it arrives, or was it to bring only the post from London?” Stannis asked.

“The— the latter, sir?”

Stannis raised an eyebrow.

The aide flushed to the roots of his fair hair and bowed himself out. Through the door, in the clerk’s area outside his office, Stannis could hear someone saying, “Oi, blockhead, we told you. His Grace looks at all the mail from London hisself, on account of _the government_ being there, and _the government_ giving confidential orders to the _Field Marshal_ —”

That wasn’t right, but Stannis was expecting a letter from Sansa. There was no appeal in going to yell at his staff, when he might have the pleasure of reading her news, and seeing her hand— the ‘i’s whose dots often floated up into the previous line, the wide loops of her ‘l’s, the left-leaning slant of the whole. Despite these little quirks, she still had some of the most legible handwriting of all his correspondents. It was certainly more legible than his own.

Stannis shuffled through the pile. Letter from his brother, the Earl Storm’s End. That could very well wait for later. That looked like a bill. That looked like another. And another. God, there seemed to be no end to the Gordian knot of Selyse’s debts, nor any sword to cut it to pieces. If he just threw money at it, more and more people would come crawling out of hiding to take advantage of it, and Selyse’s affairs were in such a muddle that she never could tell if she did owe, or if she had paid, or if she had paid, if it was in full or in part.

His eye paused on a line reading ‘Riverrun House,’ and he felt a stir of anticipation. A more thorough examination of the hand revealed it was not Sansa’s— and yet it was too legible a hand to belong to Tully. Stannis had, in fact, never received a letter from the Earl Riverrun, and fancied he never would. Lord Edmure Tully did not seem like the sort of person to whom letter writing came easily, and Lady Tully did not seem like the sort of person who would let her husband’s weakness be on display before anyone in a position of power.

And therein lay the answer; the letter must be from Lady Tully.

It was almost a military report of the implementation of the Royal Army Medical bill and the continued political infighting about it, very succinctly and shrewdly written. The last paragraph however, contained an unusual amount of underlining:

 _‘My sister-in-law Mrs._ _Tyrell_ _has been assisting me, but some days has not had the energy to accompany me to all my visits. I think she is nearing one of her melancholic moods. Her birthday is this week . It is the first she will face without __Loras_ _, and Mrs._ _T_ _will feel his absence very keenly. She was very tearful yesterday when she recalled how_ _Loras_ _always got her jewelry for her birthday._ _Indeed, she mentioned that when she left off her jet, she was not sure what she would do for jewels , for most of them were gifts from __Loras_ _, and they would all remind her of him . _’

Stannis snorted. Well. Hint taken.

He hadn’t known when Sansa’s birthday was, but he did mean to do right by her. He was not one to spend money without thought or purpose, but he didn’t mean to have the mistress he cared about more than all the others have any cause to complain about him. Though to categorize Sansa with his other mistresses seemed very much unfair. He hadn't ever been friends with any of them, the way he also was with Sansa.

He was in Paris; the next day Stannis visited a jeweler’s shop he’d heard about in passing, thanks to Lady Massey. He had taken care to come when the shop opened, so that he might be the only customer— and was glad to see he had guessed correctly. The owner of the store, a Monsieur Rochefort, drifted elegantly but diffidently over to him and, upon hearing that Stannis needed a birthday present for a particular friend, asked idly, “The lady’s coloring, sir?”

Stannis struggled to convey the lady’s loveliness. While Sansa’s eyes were indeed the color of the sea, and her hair molten copper, uttering such words aloud to another man was beyond Stannis’ capabilities. By the end of his rather lackluster speech, Monsieur Rochefort seemed most unimpressed.

“The eyes are… blue?” the jeweler asked, as though he had never before heard a pair of eyes described as such.

“Yes,” said Stannis. “And very fine.”

“The blue in Madame’s eyes would most likely be brought out by sapphires,” said Monsieur Rochefort. “I did a pair of very lovely earrings for an admirer of —”

“No,” said Stannis, who had mulling this over for some time. “A bracelet.”

This was a vastly more imitate gift. Fashion had moved away from the double bracelets that had been popular in his youth, and now dictated women wear bracelets only about their soulmarks in the evening. There was a reason a husband’s traditional first gift to his wife, post nuptials, was a bracelet.

Stannis was well aware of this. He was very aware of what this overture meant, and what he wished it to mean. He felt a certain rightness about settling on a bracelet, and on sending one to Sansa. However she chose to respond, she was surely clever enough to understand his intentions were serious. And, implications aside, it was a practical gift. The dear girl would actually need something to cover her soulmark once she was out of mourning.

Monsieur Rochefort said merely, “Of course, sir. A hinged bangle is now very much the fashion… it is a rigid band of gold, sir—”

“Yes, I know, I served in India,” said Stannis, rather annoyed. For God’s sake, he knew what a bangle was. The ladies of India wore dozens of them over their soulmarks.

“I do have some ready-made bracelets from India, sir,” said Monsieur Rochefort.

This appealed; Stannis could then be sure his gift would arrive by Sansa’s birthday. He settled on a strung bracelet of sapphires and pearls. He dashed off a note in his memorandum book, when he got back to his Paris lodgings. It was difficult to keep to the flirtatious tone of their correspondence. He was too aware of his tacit declaration, and in the end veered very close to the naked truth of his feelings: ‘ _When you leave off your jet, pray wear this about yr left wrist, and I hope you will think of me sometimes when you do. Whenever you think of me, wherever I may be, you may feel certain that my thoughts and wishes are centred on you.’_

Afraid it was already too much, Stannis shored it up with a polite, ‘ _God bless you,_ _S._ ’

He hadn’t time for a second draft, not if he wished the present to arrive by Sansa’s birthday. Stannis scanned the note with a feeling of almost irritable tenderness. Well, he was sending her a bracelet to cover her soulmark. Sansa could hardly be shocked by a more open declaration in the accompanying note. It wasn’t any worse than the usual nonsense he said to her right after they’d found their pleasure in each other.

It would take several days for the present to get to Sansa, and even if she did immediately sit down to write a response, several days for her letter to reach him. Really, the earliest he could expect to hear from her was his own birthday.

(This did not keep Stannis from sorting through all his London correspondence looking for a ‘Paris’ or a ‘Cambrai’ with a dot wandering away from the stem of an ‘i.’)

On his birthday, he was obliged to actually _ask_ for the post, when he strode into his office. Stannis felt deeply annoyed. If Massey had been in charge of the mail, the post from London would have been on his desk already, but Massey was too valuable to waste on post— and sorting letters was difficult for him, after losing that arm at Waterloo.

“Post from London,” said Idiot Aide of the Morning.

Stannis took it, his irritability increasing when he saw no letter from Riverrun House. The knowledge that Sansa’s letters sometimes arrived by evening post did not soothe him; if he had sent his heart in a box to her, he would not have been less fixated on its reception.

Idiot Aide of the Morning stammered out, “Um, packages from London too, Your Grace.”

“What has the Prince Regent sent?” Stannis asked, already inclined to dislike it. The last time the Prince Regent had given him a present, it had been a giant nude statue of Napoleon.

Maybe Selyse could be persuaded to take it in the final divorce settlement.

“Um, we are not sure, sir, we did not take the liberty of opening it.”

“Bring it in, and fetch Lord Massey from his chambers, so he can write down who needs a note from me.”

Stannis did not bother to hide his displeasure. Here was a day wasted, in having to receive things he did not want or need, and things that he would later have to be seen using lest he offend someone, and then writing notes thanking people for making his life more difficult and uncomfortable.

The Prince Regent had sent the most useless, gilded monstrosity of a saddle Stannis had ever seen. His Royal Highness would expect Stannis to use the blasted thing the next time he was in London. Stannis could only imagine the look of exaggerated horror Sansa would turn on him when she saw it.

A thought occurred.

“Anything from Riverrun House?” Stannis asked abruptly.

Massey stuck his pencil in his notebook, to hold his place, and began shifting through the boxes one-handed. “Here’s one, sir.”

“I’ll come to you,” Stannis said, foreseeing the difficulties of Massey attempting to make through the maze of boxes while his one arm was wrapped about a long, thin box.

Stannis took off the lid, to see a note reading on the first line, ‘To His Grace,’ and then on the second, ‘the Duke of Dragonstone,’ He felt a rush of affection. Ah, his sweet girl. She would respond in kind, letter for letter, gift for gift. He broke the seal with eagerness to read, ‘ _Your Grace, I pray you do not cast this violin into the fire; no one now doubts your dedication to the army. Indeed, I should think this violin supports your status as best soldier in Europe, for it gives you the ability to master Bonaparte in yet another medium. If anyone else gets you a better present than that, I shall be terrifically put out, for I thought myself tremendously clever when I thought to purchase this for you, and also did not like to think anyone else would be able to please you as much as I. Believe me ever yr friend—_ _S_ _._ _S_ _._ _Tyrell_ _._ ’

He looked back in the box and couldn’t help a bark of laughter. His dear, sweet girl had, in fact sent him a violin, and the sheet music for _Proudwing_. What had possessed him to tell her the sad tale, he did not know. It did not paint him in a flattering light. Robert had been, well, Robert. His mocking of Stannis’ love for music was true to form. That Stannis had been so frustrated by his failure to play this piece, and as a result threw his violin to the fire and vowed never to play again, was not. He had often regretted having succumbed in such a way to Robert’s needling and his own private fear of inadequacy.

No one could please him as much as Sansa did. Her note and her present were more cautious than his own, but he saw in both her careful offer: to help him finally undo the emotional tangles of his unhappy first marriage, the chance to try again… with her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Stannis did come back to England, he was in a better mood than he had been since the whole damn divorce business had started. He had missed playing the violin (though he would not admit it, even when Sansa tried to tease it out of him in private), and it seemed that the last of Selyse’s creditors had finally been found out. Two weeks of work, and all would be settled and Stannis Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone, and Mrs. Selyse Florent Baratheon Jameson could avoid each other all the rest of their days. Stannis could hardly wait.

As a result, Stannis was in high spirits as he stepped into Riverrun House. Upon being shown in, he was treated to the sight of Sansa, standing to the side with her veil over her shoulder, several branches of tea roses in her hands, looking even lovelier than he’d recalled. The light from the window illuminated her willowy figure, casting a golden halo to her red hair.

Sansa turned to look at him over her shoulder and could not help but smile and exclaim, “Your Grace!”

Stannis looked warmly and admiringly at Sansa as he said, “Mrs. Tyrell, my dear, it has been an age.” He recalled the mistress of the house was also present and bowed to her. “Lady Tully.”

“Your Grace,” said Lady Tully, dipping into a curtsey. “We dine en famille this evening. We have put you in your usual room— would you care to freshen up? If not, perhaps I might consign you to the care of Mrs. Tyrell. I know you left your horse in France, since you are only here a few days, and my dear husband wishes you to have your pick of the stables while you are staying with us.” She waved about her flowers as if to give an excuse as to why she could not do so herself.

“I should be very much obliged if Mrs. Tyrell would take me to the stables,” said Stannis.

Lady Tully contented herself with an airy, “I thought as much!”

Stannis waited only to be sure the hall was empty before sweeping Sansa up into his arms and kissing her thoroughly.

Sansa said, in a tone of playful censure, “Your Grace!”

He tried to look innocent. “What offends the lady? She holds onto me tightly enough.”

“So I do not fall!” she protested, laughingly.

“I cannot help that you are such a little thing.” In truth, Sansa was quite tall for a lady, but Baratheon men tended to stand a head taller than everyone else, and Stannis was no different. “To kiss you properly I am practically obliged to pick you up.” But he set her down and said, with unguarded warmth, “Ah! My dear. I have felt the want of you very keenly.”

“I promise all manner of consolation,” Sansa replied, archly, “but later!”

“Later! Dear girl, I have waited a month to kiss you; is that not delay enough?”

She could not help but be moved by such obvious desire, and though it was not as thorough a consolation as His Grace might have wished, they were both in a glowing good humor at dinner. Only Lady Tully seemed to notice, but said nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I think Margaery knows,” said Sansa later, when Stannis locked the door behind her.

“And this... surprises you, my dear?”

“A little,” she said, and then, “I suppose not.”

“Very little escapes Lady Tully’s notice,” said Stannis, deftly taking her shawl from her. “We are damned lucky she uses her powers for good.”

“You aren't upset?”

“I rather expected it,” he replied dryly, folding her shawl and hanging it over the settee. “And judging by the way your sister couldn't keep from laughing the last time I was here, I daresay she knows as well.”

“I didn't tell either of them!”

He chucked her under the chin. “I am well aware. Dear girl, you can never entirely hide what you think. Your blushes betray you, when your expression does not.”

“I have been trying , since you so kindly put me on my guard.”

He laughed and kissed her, content for the time being to enjoy only this simple pleasure. When she was sufficiently relaxed, he broke away reluctantly to add, “My lawyer put this month to good use, but I do wish I could have been here for your birthday. In retrospect, I ought to have given you the bracelet in private.”

“I was, perhaps, a touch embarrassed, but it is perhaps better you did not,” said Sansa, happily tucked against his shoulder and under his chin, “for Margaery convinced everyone— including some overly interested servants fussing with the coffee pots— that you had forgotten it was my birthday until it was nearly time to leave for France again, and went about your house looking for something suitable you could throw in a box. Now, after June, I might actually wear it in public.”

She had put it on in private, seemingly just to please him.

Stannis was indeed pleased, and toyed with it as they talked. “I hope it was a good birthday.”

“An odd one,” Sansa admitted. “But it was my first as a widow. Of course it would be odd. Aside from being a little glum that evening, and having a good cry over Colonel Tyrell when I was alone that night, I managed to make it through turning five and twenty without any real disasters.”

 _Twenty…_ “Oh God,” said Stannis, hand stilling on her wrist, “are you really only five and twenty? I thought you much closer in age to Colonel Tyrell.”

Sansa gave him a look, unimpressed at the inference she looked older than her five and twenty years. He realized that there was no possible way to recover from that, but tried to explain, “Dear girl, I turned eight and forty last week.”

“I can see that doing so put you in a mood,” she replied dryly, “If you’d had dependants my age, I would be alarmed,” said Sansa, “but really, it had not even occurred to me to wonder about your age, or if you might be too old for me. I suppose I was foolish for having paid no attention to it when I first found myself... attracted to you; but I never felt any... intimidation or inequality on that head. You do not mind, do you?”

 _Mind?_ He certainly did not _mind_. “It is something of a common fantasy for men my age, to enrapture a woman so much their junior,” he replied, dryly, “so rather the opposite, my dear. And I confess to another fantasy.” At her raised eyebrow, he tugged on her nightrail. “Would you consider taking this off? You have the prettiest figure, and it gives me great pleasure to see it.”

Sansa blushed.

“If it makes you uncomfortable you needn't, but I do rather think we are on terms of enough intimacy—”

“I— I suppose,” she said uncertainly.

He rested his hand on the back of her neck, and marveled at how quickly she calmed under his touch.

“Would it help to keep the bracelet on?” he asked.

“Oddly, yes,” said Sansa. “It seems stupid since you have seen my mark, but—”

“Habits of modesty are always difficult to entirely throw over for any woman of good breeding. And on that note— would it help if I was the one to undress you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, coloring. “I should feel a great deal less guilty.”

“Dear girl,” he said, kissing her cheek, “there’s no need to be embarrassed. I had an inkling it might be the case. You will tell me if I am too rough with you?”

“Yes and rather vehemently too.”

“Good.” He abruptly pinned her against the pillows and began to kiss her. She responded beautifully, happy in her surrender. He’d had a suspicion she would respond well to such treatment. The dear girl was relieved in absolving herself of responsibility. It was her choice, true, and she knew he would never make it in her stead, but it was difficult to feel guilty about it in the moment when someone else was doing all the work. All she had to do was express her preference and accept its reality. Stannis was merely grateful she felt comfortable enough, secure enough, to allow him such liberties with her person.

He came to rest in the cradle of her thighs, heavy atop her, as he pushed up the hem of her nightrail, and he laid back atop her so immediately after yanking the nightrail almost brusquely off over her head, Sansa did not have a chance to feel exposed. He kissed her again, and again, until uncertainty had been drowned in sensation, and then pushed himself up to pull off his own nightshirt.

The appreciative gleam in her eye did not go unnoticed. Stannis prided himself on keeping in form, ever the vigilant soldier. The confirmation that he was physically appealing to her as she was to him was rather pleasing. His darling girl tentatively reached out to touch his bare shoulder and asked, “How is it you have no scars at all?”

“I took very good care not to be hit,” Stannis replied dryly. “I think I was only ever struck by bullets two or three times in my life. I was grazed by a musket ball at Seringapatam, and I was justly repaid for laughing at General Alava’s getting hit by a musket ball to the backside by getting shot off my horse in very near the same place.” He moved her hand to it. “It still pains me from time to time. Be the good girl you are and rub it better for me. In India, the lower castes thought you could rub any injury away.”

“You haven’t even a scar there,” Sansa protested, propping herself up on an elbow to look.

“The ball glanced off the guard of my sword.” But it was said absently. Stannis was now studying her with a pleased air; he did not care to think of past injuries when there were present pleasures on offer. “You have so wonderfully fine a complexion, my dear.”

“A little too fine, I always thought. I blush at everything.”

“I like your blushes. I am always charmed by not only how little you can conceal your feelings, but how modestly you do display them.” There was a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, as he studied how far down her blush went. “What a tease you are, keeping all this beauty to yourself, letting me see it only in part for so long. I had better map it all before you hide it away again.”

This was delightful. There was such a captivating tension in her, between desire and propriety. It was flatteringly obvious that she wanted him, that his attentions inflamed and pleased her, but it was likewise clear that she did not always know how to manage this desire, or what to do with it. Every time he had her, there was a fascinating repeat of the struggle beforehand, where he had to convince her to cast aside her modesty, to overturn the struggle against her scruples and give into him.

At some function or other in Paris, he had overheard some Lord of the Foreign Office saying, idly, “Ah yes, the widow Tyrell! Quite the English rose, is she not?” Some French guests had been unfamiliar with the term, and the odious man had felt compelled to explain, “A pretty creature is our English rose— prettily mannered, prettily dressed, pretty in general; sweet-natured and modest to the point of occasional primness; slight, with a complexion suited to blushes; spirited, though never to the point of being unladylike.”

Stannis had not disagreed with this characterization of Mrs. Tyrell. Sansa was a very good sort of woman— the kind who had always thought of herself as a good girl while young, and probably still did, albeit in an idiosyncratic way. Her notion of virtue was different than the common definition. Courtesy was to Sansa the highest virtue, and she endeavored to always be a virtuous woman according to that standard.

In this Stannis could only see the evidence of her compassionate heart, which she had so generously opened to him. The courtesy came from care; her pushing against social restrictions that chafed her were therefore no paradox. Mrs. Tyrell was not guided by arbitrary forms of politeness, but the general belief that every person she met deserved to be treated politely and kindly. There was an overlap between this and propriety, for she had clearly been taught propriety was one of courtesy’s outward manifestations, but Stannis was not sure she always believed this. If coming to the aid of some fellow creature meant jumping into the mud with a basket of bandages overhead, she would do it, rather than hang back in a properly decorous fashion.

Stannis was as thorough in studying her as he was in the terrain of any battlefield, his touch at first light and teasing, before he determined where a rougher caress would be more appreciated, and drove Sansa onward to pleasure. He was delighted that she now relaxed into his touch, at the proof she trusted him enough to be vulnerable, to present herself to him without any barrier. He felt tremendously smug to have guessed this about her— her particular preference to being taken by force. It had always been his preference to be in total control of intimate encounters and it delighted him to new heights of passion to discover her preference was to be forced by a partner to submit to her pleasure.

It was not that she was an unwilling participant— far from it; she spent as soon as he entered her— but that it helped her evade the guilt of letting desire win. This embarrassed her a little, but Stannis merely pinned her wrists down, over her head, and said, mock-chidingly, “My dear, you're quite mistaken if you think I shall stop after I’ve brought you off only once. You ought to know me better than that.”

He kissed her then, and began to thrust into her almost leisurely, bringing her close to her peak time and time again and then withdrawing and teasing her with airy, “Patience”s until she ended up in a state of such frustration she told him to take his patience to the devil.

“I shall never get over the irony of your being declared a model of feminine delicacy,” he said, but obliged her and continued on in the attentions he had been teasingly tapering off. She tried to arch up against him and he pressed down more heavily, tightening his grip on her wrists.

“Oh Christ,” Sansa said breathlessly. “I'm going to— sir, I—” She seemed to be teetering madly on the brink.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he said, plunging into her with renewed energy. “Give into it, sweetheart. I want to feel you come apart.”

Sansa pulled a little against his grip on her wrists and got out a half-frantic, “I want to hold you.”

This surprised him, but he managed to release her wrists without deviating from the rhythm he had set. Sansa flung her arms about his neck and clung to him all the tighter, burying her face against the side of his neck to muffle her cry as pleasure utterly overwhelmed her. As she came around him a second time, more powerfully than she ever had before, he asked raggedly, “Oh my love, are you trying to kill me? You feel too damned good to be real.”

He had not meant to call her love, or to even hint that his feelings for her had grown to that point, but Mrs. Tyrell, sweet, dear girl she was, clung onto him and kissed him, tilting up her hips so he might drive fully into her— and then— God. He had not known so complete a state of euphoria existed.

There was no help for it; he gave into the rush of pleasure and happiness, the strangely mixed contentment and exhilaration of knowing that the chase could not and would never be over— not when it could end like this, every time—

— and not when Sansa clearly loved it as much as he did.


	9. In Which Everyone Muddles Through the Anniversary of Waterloo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short? What is Short? How does one write short?
> 
> Two days of trying to edit this beast into a manageable length left me mostly upset.  
> So instead, here are almost 9000 words of Very Silly Things.
> 
> I hope the epilogue will be kinder towards me, and up by Monday at the latest.

After his divorce had been finalized, Stannis realized he had very little excuse to remain in London. His place was in France, with his men and his duties, both of which he had put off for too long. Though he knew he would likely be called back every other month or so, for the Tories were unlikely to pull ahead in the House without his support, it was not enough to appease him. He had grown accustomed to having Sansa within reach, and the idea of having to satisfy his desire for her by writing letters was unappealing in the extreme.

On a rather unseasonably warm night in March, his last in London before departure, Stannis found himself in Highgarden House in the company of every living Tyrell (even Garlan Tyrell, Lord Brightwater and the Earl’s secondborn son, was in attendance, having come to London with his wife, a Lady Leonette Fossoway, and their four children from Denmark). All for the sake of a few more precious hours, now minutes, in the company of Mrs. Tyrell. His mood was dark and uncharitable, and even Sansa’s smiles were not enough to keep him engaged. It therefore took a moment for him to catch unto Lady Tully’s words.

“Oh Garlan!” said Lady Tully, in a chiding tone. “You mustn’t feel responsible! We have felt the want of your company very keenly, and giving up a trip to France is a small enough price to pay. France will be there later on, I’m sure, when we have the time for it.”

“Were you to France for the summer?” said Stannis.

It was the Earl who replied, “Well, as my dear daughter-in-law is finally feeling sufficiently restored to go into half-mourning next week, and with the anniversary of Loras’ passing so close, we had thought coming to Cambrai to show our support for the military upon the anniversary of Waterloo most appropriate.” Much like Lady Tully’s husband, who had no thought in his head that his wife did not put there, Mace Tyrell, Earl Highgarden, was fond of presenting other people’s ideas as his own. “But, as Garlan has finally found the time to come visit, we couldn’t possibly find a proper house for us all on such short notice.”

Stannis leaned back in his seat and said, “My lord, I think I see a way to resolve several of our present difficulties. My daughter is unsettled over the idea of going with me to France; you are not desirous of remaining in England; why do not you and your family come to France and stay with me for the summer? My daughter would be very glad of new friends, your grandchildren, and it would be a very great pleasure to repay your kindness in hosting me all this Season.”

All eyes turned hopefully to look at the Earl. Even Sansa looked at her father-in-law in a beseeching manner. Stannis flattered himself it was the thought of being with _him_ all summer that made her look almost giddy, but was forced to admit it might very well be the thought of seeing all her military friends again that made her so.

Lady Tully caught Stannis’ eye, smiled approvingly, and then turned to Highgarden. “Oh yes, father! Just think— with the Duke of Dragonstone as your host, all doors will be open to you— I daresay you will be able to get as exact an account of the battle as you desire.”

Highgarden seemed to hesitate. “It might be frowned upon, were it known such arrangements were made so hastily…”

“I am willing to stretch a point and declare this trip was arranged during my last visit,” said Stannis, unwilling to let the opportunity slip his grasp.

Highgarden looked relieved and then looked annoyed at his relief. As a prominent Whig, Mace Tyrell was a natural political opponent of the Duke of Dragonstone. After years of mutual dislike, it was oftentimes difficult for both men, who were rather set in their ways, to remember they’ve become reluctant allies. While it was Lady Tully’s influence, and Sansa’s charm, that had brought Stannis into Highgarden’s orbit, the Earl had shown unexpected sympathy towards Stannis’ plight, and had done everything within his power, including sending for his own private lawyers, to help the divorce end swiftly and as quietly as possible.

“Your Grace is very kind. Though it will probably take me until the beginning of June to wrap up all my affairs in London.” Said Highgarden.

“Good,” said Stannis. “I shall have some time to prepare for your arrival. I am very glad you will come, my lord.”

The children returned and were informed of these arrangements. The Brightwater children, a boisterous bunch, were ecstatic. Shireen had become their dear friend these past few weeks. Even his shy daughter showed her happiness very obviously, and was all smiles.

Sansa, too, seemed very pleased. As the children were taken away for the evening, Stannis leaned towards her and whispered, “Pleased, my dear?"

“Very much so. I did not expect you to say anything. And it was really quite an ingenious solution, inviting Lord Highgarden to France. Shireen seemed very pleased as well.”

“I did think myself clever, for having solved two problems so swiftly. But in truth, my dear, I did it as much for myself as for my daughter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stannis had been on fire the past few weeks to see Sansa, and it was with great difficulty that he endured all the usual rigmarole of entering a ballroom when one was the Duke of Dragonstone, Hero of Europe, etc. He understood the necessity of all this ceremony, but he did not trust the sentiments which inspired it. The orchestra played ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes,’ now, but in two days the press might decide he was a stain on the honor of Britain and they might play one of the irritating pub songs calling him a cuckold, or one of the French ditties praising Bonaparte. Stannis had distrusted public opinion since it cast his elder brother’s time in India in such differing lights, all within the same few months. After the fallout of his divorce from Selyse, he had no faith in it at all.

Still, he had his duties.

He nodded and spoke politely to the glittering crowd that swirled about him— taking note of the positions of allies, enemies, and neutral parties as he might on a battlefield— and failing to spot Sansa. Devil take it, where was she?

Stannis finished his rounds feeling deeply annoyed. The promise of seeing her had been supporting him through the past few days, through the unutterable stupidities committed by drunk redcoats who had too little to do, and the impossible inanities of the diplomats and bureaucrats who laid claim to the rest of his waking hours. A man who had endured so much ought to be allowed a little time with the mistress he adored.

He heard the tones of Sansa’s voice as he walked past the glass doors that led to the terrace, and the garden beyond; his pulse quickened at the sound.

Stannis abruptly excused himself from conversation and strode out.

Ah— there she was. Out on the terrace, with all the children.

Sansa looked so lovely his heart ached at the sight. Now finally in half-mourning, Sansa wore a lovely shade of lilac, and her hair was artfully arranged with those blue blossoms Stannis saw her wear the first time he laid eyes on her. Still, the ache in his chest perhaps had less to do with the artful arrangement of hair and gown, and more to do with the fact that his dear, sweet girl was laughingly teaching his daughter to waltz. “And we go out of the promenade to—” she bit her lip to keep from laughing as Shireen moved in entirely the wrong direction, and managed to say, kindly, “No, left hand up— up—”

“One couple is not precisely adequate for a dance,” Stannis observed.

Sansa turned and blushed. He had never thought himself the sort of man to go weak with love for a blush, but that had been before her.

“As my nephew Mr. Tyrell has pointed out,” she said, trying to keep Shireen on beat in the fastest section, the sauteuse, where they were to hold each other and leap in a small circle “—one two three, one two three— yes, that’s it, hop like that— if there is but one couple, I am not actually dancing, and therefore I cannot be said to really be breaking convention. And if that does not convince you, I am temporarily standing in for the governess, who was asked to dance by your aide-de-camp. If I am to play at being a governess for half an hour, I must teach my nieces and nephews something.”

“And so you choose the waltz?” he asked, smiling at her half in fondness, half in exasperation. “Very proper subject!”

“I would never make it as a governess, I am afraid.” She tried to take Shireen from the spinning leaps of the sauteuse into the leap-hop-pivot of the ‘jettée.’ “Not quite, my lady— oops.”

“I think you might learn more from observation, Shireen,” said Stannis, catching his daughter, who had not quite held onto Sansa’s hands and spun away.

They had not danced together since well before Waterloo. He still recalled the first time they had danced, how charmed he had been by her, the pleasant elasticity of her movements. As he took her left hand, his gaze strayed to the blue blossoms in her hair. He had mentioned to her once, in passing, how charming he found them. She had blushed so prettily, and revealed the flowers to be winter roses. Endearments rose to his lips, but he could say none of them before the children. They were too apt to repeat anything they heard but did not understand. Instead, he affectionately brushed his fingers down her back before taking her right hand, held at the small of her back.

She stumbled at this touch; Stannis savored her responses, but gave her time to recover by questioning the children. They had no interest in the waltz, or Mrs. Tyrell’s blushes, or Stannis’ duties. They had found a toad, and that was the most important thing in the world.

There was nothing like children to give one some perspective on life.

It became gradually more obvious that Sansa was as affected by seeing him as he had been by seeing her; she could not meet his eyes and was unsteady in her movements. Indeed, she spun smack into him when they needed to move into the slow part of the dance.

“Steady on, my dear,” he said, tightening his grip about her, to keep her from falling.

How was it she felt so good in his arms, so neatly and perfectly fitted? Stannis looked down at her, unable to hide all the affection he felt.

The music seemed to stretch and slow, making everything around them strangely sharp; the sound of the cicadas and crickets adding their voices to the strings, the faint chill so much more like February than June, the whisper of gossamer robe against silk slip, the gradiated darkness of the garden about them, the dim light of beeswax candles refracting off crystal pendants and filtering through the sets of dancers and rows of observers; the warm touch of her hand through her glove, his arm about her slim waist, the familiar scratch of gold braid at the end of his sleeve, the brilliant blue of her eyes, the surprising softness of her smile.

It took Stannis a moment to realize the orchestra had, in fact, struck their final cords. He took a step back, releasing her right hand. Though he lowered their left arms, he brought her hand to his lips immediately after doing so. A common enough courtesy, but Sansa’s breath caught in her throat— especially when, after a glance at the children behind Sansa, making sure they wouldn't see, he turned her hand over and kissed her soulmark through her glove.

“You, sir, are a rogue,” murmured Sansa, blushing violently.

“And here I was, thinking that a lady always ends a dance by thanking her partner.”

Sansa seemed to recall the children might still be watching them and said, primly, “I thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”

“It was beyond a pleasure, Mrs. Tyrell.” He reluctantly released her hand, and turned his attention to the children, who had watched their dance with but half-an-eye, obsessed, as they still were, with the toad they had found.

Julia, the eldest of Sansa’s nieces and nephews, came over and offered, properly and somewhat pompously, to help Sansa with her train. As soon as this was unpinned, a gentleman most decidedly not Lord Justin Massey led the governess back out unto the terrace.

The governess blushed, and Sansa raised an eyebrow at the unknown gentleman until he turned and proceeded into the ballroom before them, then took Stannis’ proffered arm. Unwilling to part with her so soon, after so long a wait, Stannis leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Perhaps I might tempt you into a detour?”

“You know you could tempt me into anything.” Dear girl, she knew how to move him.

“I think the library might be both close and deserted— it’s across the hall from the room decided upon as the ladies’ retiring room.”

But as soon as they entered the ballroom, they were set upon by Lord Massey, who came over in a rush, clearly alarmed at having lost sight of the Duke for so long. Stannis really had not patience for such nonsense, and said, perhaps more brusquely than warranted, “Come now, Massey! I’m hardly going to be assassinated in my own ballroom.” That, unfortunately, resulted in Stannis being overwhelmed by the odious masses, all expressing concern over the risks to his life and wishes for his continued well-being—which he found, quite frankly, very ironic, given he had spent most of his life getting shot at—and by the time he managed an escape he had lost sight of his target.

He needn’t have worried though, for, as soon as he entered the library, there was his sweet girl, sitting at the window with a book in her hand.

“Your Grace,” said Sansa, shelving the book and curtseying.

He shut the door behind him, locked it, and strode over to her. “By God,” he said, “how glad I am to see you again.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa said, laughing a little, opening her arms to him, “You saw me barely a moment ago.”

“Saw, yes,” muttered Stannis, still upset by having to endure the company of people who were very much not Sansa. “But it has been weeks since I have kissed you properly.”

“You would do better to kiss me improperly, for I shan't be satisfied until you do.”

He was happy to oblige, and took her by main force, as was their mutual preference; up against a bookshelf, her lilac silk hiked up, with a froth of petticoats about her waist. She held onto the shelf at first, before putting her arms about his shoulders. He gripped her hips more firmly in response, holding her in place as she began to arch against him.

“Nearly there, sir,” she got out, trying to press closer to him, to find that one particular bit of contact that would bring her to her peak.

“Steady on; I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He moved a hand from her hip and began to stroke her until her breath caught in her throat, and she tilted her head back, letting out a soft cry as she peaked; he pressed even closer, filling her, holding her, and with a few deep thrusts, groaned and buried his face against the side of her neck. He found himself muttering all sorts of nonsense and reassurances, words he would never think to utter if he were in his right mind. Thankfully, Sansa was still too dazed with the aftershocks of her pleasure to pay much attention to his mumbling.

“Mm?” she asked.

“Incoherent compliments, my love, that is all.” And there he was again, calling her love. Stannis shook his head in an attempt to regain some sense. “Did you put these winter roses in your hair for me?”

“I did! I thought it would please you.”

Was his heart racing due to his recent release, or at the thought of her requesting her maid put these flowers in her hair with him in mind? “Oh my sweet girl, it does, enormously. Will you come to me tonight?”

She affectionately stroked the short hair at the nape of his neck. “What further satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”

His answer was short and explicit.

Sansa laughed. “I have no idea where your room is and am a little afraid I shall not be able to find mine again once I leave it. It is too bad you do not chalk names on the doors, as they do in the army.”

“Will you allow me to come to you?”

His words made her pause, her languidness suddenly replaced by a vaguely nervous air. She had always gone to him. Perhaps it seemed strangely more personal to have a lover come spend the night in her bed, than spending the night in his. She looked uncertainly at him; he tried to keep his expression fond, his eyes soft. They were still intimately joined, the hum of contented energy that always filled him after such acts still filled his mind and suffused his limbs. It felt a silly barrier to have, this objection that he should come to her, that they should be in her bed instead of his own.

“Yes— yes, Your Grace. I will allow it.” Her attempt at levity was somewhat tarnished by her nervous laugh. “You have petitioned me in a charitable mood. But wait an hour after I retire; it takes longer to get out of grande tenue than a dinner gown.”

“I humbly thank you,” Stannis bent to kiss her, lightly, and whispered against her lips, “By God, I have missed you.”

They pulled apart and began to straighten out their clothing. Sansa went to check her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, and said, airly, “How sweet of you to say so! But I imagine you had other consolations here. You cannot have been very much in want of company.”

“In want of your company, my dear.” He then understood what she was hinting at and felt highly offended. “Come now, Mrs. T! You know very well there has been no one but you since January.” He found a silk rose that had fallen from her hair to the floor and passed it to her.

Sansa seemed extremely startled to hear this, which in turn caused him to frown. There was some wretched misunderstanding here, but for the life of him he could not fathom its source. Had she thought herself to be one of several? Despite the unwarranted compliment to his prowess, it seemed to imply a very skewed perception of their relationship. Did she really not know? He loved her, as he had never loved anyone before. Cautiously, he added, “I have not wanted or needed anyone but you since then. I am not sure I ever shall.”

This fell into a sudden silence— the orchestra down the hall had finished, and there was a heartbeat of quiet before the dancers applauded.

“We shall be missed,” said Sansa quickly, smoothing down her gossamer overdress. “Will you go first? They will look for you first.”

At a loss as to what to do with himself, Stannis kissed her forehead. “Yes, my dear. Shall I see you later?”

Her nod was absent-minded at best, yet Stannis had no choice but to leave her, and his heart, behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taking her again in the late hours of the night did little to relieve Stannis’ concerns. She was eager for him, frantic even, and had quickly convinced him to follow her lead. The sweet girl then promptly fell asleep, and Stannis was soon after compelled to leave the warmth of her side for his own cold bed, knowing it would not do to fall asleep in her arms and risk the servants finding them.

Stannis was in a foul mood the following day and, for the first time, actually quarreled with Mrs. T. They’d had their disagreements before (indeed, they had very nearly quarreled over rotten boroughs one evening in London, before Stannis declared that he really didn’t care enough about rotten boroughs to spend any more time talking about them), but neither of them had actually been angry with each other; or at least, not angry enough to raise their voices. But, as it was, they’d come across one another in the street, Sansa having called on her friend Mrs. Payne, and Stannis riding back to the house after having gone about his business in Cambrai. Instead of a smile and a witty remark, Stannis found himself faced with a genuinely angry Mrs. Tyrell, who immediately set about telling him off for parading about (Ha! Him, parading!) without escort.

Perhaps if Stannis had not spent his morning soothing the fragile tempers and yet more fragile egos of the worthies of Cambrai, and spent nearly all his time since coming to France soothing the crotchets of men he thought idiots, he would have remained calm, and seen her anger was born out of worry; but as it was, he was tired of having his actions questioned and replied with cool and rather cutting disdain that riding through two streets in Cambrai was hardly the worst danger he had ever faced. Did she really think him so incapable and useless a fellow as all that? By the time they reached the house, they were quarrelling outright and, by mutual, unspoken agreement, detoured into the orchard, so that their raised voices would not alarm the servants or the household.

The argument was a fairly stupid one, over whether or not Stannis should have guards wherever he went, but Stannis could sense the fault lines of larger personality differences between the surface. It was the usual division between Tory and Whig; for continuity versus reform. It was ever his habit to ride unescorted about Cambrai and to change it now (over a few, rather uninspiring assassination attempts) would cause panic; and, as Field Marshal of England, Generalissmo of Spain, head of the Anglo-Allied Army, etc his duty was to provide a sense of stability through continuity of behavior. Sansa, in turn, argued that he could not do so if he was shot by an assassin, and was it not the mark of a wise man to alter his course of action when his ordinary habits proved insufficient to master them? Was it not the lesser evil to have at least an aide always with him?

Quite tetchily he replied, “My girl, do you think to teach me how to defend myself? I’ve been campaigning almost as long as you’ve been alive.”

That was very much the wrong thing to say. Sansa could not conceal her flare of anger at being thought too young, too feeble-minded, or too inexperienced to fully understand the situation they now faced. Stannis tried to explain, “I could have sworn you once had greater faith in my judgment. Did we not agree during our time in Spain?”

“I agreed that you knew the proper military strategy to defeat the French!”

“And do you not think I now know best how to keep the peace?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Really, and what are you saying?”

“That I think you’re being a damned fool,” Sansa burst out, vexed in the extreme. With that she turned on her heel and stalked off, tearing up with anger—she always cried at any extreme of emotion—and ignoring the confused Lady Tully, who’d clearly been called by some terrified servant to come intervene.

The look Lady Tully leveled at him was unimpressed.

“Is His Grace quite finished?”

Stannis could not remain civil. “His Grace is quite finished humoring follies.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Tully, dryly.

“Out with-it woman, or to the Devil with you.”

“I was only this morning reminded by my dear Father that this is the anniversary of Quatre Bras.”

Quatre Bras had been fought only two days prior to Waterloo. Damned Bonaparte had managed to prevent Stannis from joining forces with the Prussian army that day, forcing him regroup and offer battle on the Mont-Saint-Jean escarpment across the Brussels road, near the village of Waterloo. Why the Devil did she think he would care to be reminded of that now?

When he said as much, Lady Tully’s mask of vague politeness cracked. Her tone was sharp when she said, “Colonel Tyrell took a bullet in the arm during that battle. The wound had not been properly cauterized, as we all know, and my poor brother had to ride out to Hougoumont half-mad with fever. You remember how that ended, I’m sure?”

“Ha,” said Stannis, feeling like a fool.

“Ha indeed,” said Lady Tully. She gave a sniff of dismay, and left him to wallow in his own misery for the rest of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At midnight, Stannis knocked on Sansa’s door. When the door finally opened, the poor girl looked a mess, but her blue eyes still held a fiery indignation Stannis now knew he well deserved.

Contrite, he raised his arms in surrender.

“I suppose you’d better come in before you’re seen,” said Sansa.

She quickly locked the door after him and then promptly went to her vanity, turned her back on him, and began brushing her hair furiously. 

In the mirror she followed his progress as Stannis took stock of the room and sat on a chair by the fire, pointedly avoiding the bed. When it became clear she would not give him any quarter, Stannis sighed tiredly and said, “I’ve come to apologize. After our grand breeze this afternoon— I can hardly call it a tempest— I was reminded today is the anniversary of Quatre Bras.”

Sansa tried to set down her hairbrush but somehow fumbled it, so that it fell to the tabletop with a clatter, knocking over her milk of roses cream and a pot of hair pomade.

“And,” said Stannis, forcibly keeping to his chair, but sitting on the edge of it, in case she should signal she wanted him, “I realize your concern for my security detail stems, if not entirely, than at least in part from that unhappy memory. My love—” his voice was rough; as if worry for her had worn away the polished edges of his manner “—I am sorry. I hadn’t realized just how it might make you feel, to have another redcoat you cared for in danger, on this day in particular.”

Sansa bowed her head, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face. When she spoke, he heard the tears in her words. “Are you so determined to take on the blame when I am equally at fault? I beg your pardon myself. I knew as soon as I started in on scolding you that it was the way to put your back up. You aren’t a fool, not at all; I probably could not name a more reasonable or rational man. I know how carefully you approach any danger. I know you do not act unless you are confident of victory; but… as you said, I have seen how even very clever, very cautious men can be killed from a moment’s inattention. If I had only persuaded the Colonel to have his wound looked at a second time….”

Stannis rose swiftly, and came to rest at her side with a steadying arm upon her shoulder. Sansa turned and pressed her cheek to the back of his hand.

“I know,” said Stannis. “It’s hell. It is odd how a year after the loss, the grief turns all to rage.”

They remained like that a moment, quiet; then Sansa said, “And this is the most wearing part of the campaign isn’t it? The anticipation of the attack? We haven’t any idea where the enemy is, or who it is. I begin to feel a little sympathy for the French, when they were plagued by the Spanish guerillas.”

“It is,” Stannis agreed. “Few people can keep their tempers under such circumstances.”

Sansa shifted slightly, so she could press a kiss to his knuckles. He understood this for the final apology it was, and said, gently, “I shall endeavor to have an aide with me in future. I suppose if I toss enough papers at him, no one will be much alarmed.”

He was tender with her after that, preferring to be gentle— cherishing in a way he had never allowed himself before, but Sansa fell right back into calling him ‘sir.’ Still moving gently against her, Stannis flicked her cheek with his forefinger, and said, “Oh my sweet, however did I make it through the day before I met you? You are the delight of my life.”

Sansa blushed and looked confused, and could think of no response to this but to kiss him and kiss him thoroughly. “Oh yes,” she murmured encouragingly, when her kisses drove him to increase the pace of his thrusts, and bore down against him, taking him in. Stannis spent some time leaning over her, pinning her wrists above her head, kissing her, until she was at a stage of impatience where she struggled against him, trying to convey how badly she wanted him. “Oh please, sir!”

“By the by,” he asked, forcefully pulling her wrists down, so that his hands were on either side of her face, “why is it you always call me ‘sir’ in these moments? If it is your preference I shall naturally oblige you, but—” bending down briefly to kiss her, and pressing his hips teasingly to hers “—I should be very grateful if you would let me call you ‘Sansa.’”

Sansa blinked up at him. “I—why?”

“Why?” Stannis asked, nuzzling the side of her neck. “Because all of your intimates call you ‘Sansa.’ I think I have the singular honor of a different definition of intimacy than all the rest, but, nonetheless… spread your legs a little wider, my dear— there.”

He eased back into her, and Sansa let her head fall back. “I suppose,” she said, a little dreamily, “this is your way of assailing my defenses. Damn you, Beau Baratheon, for being so bloody good at it. I dare say you could ask me anything while you were making love to me, and I’d agree to it.”

This surprised him. “Dear girl, you call me ‘sir’ as a defense? What on earth for?”

She struggled against his grip; he pressed down. Though her excitement clearly rose, for she could not help a small noise of pleasure, it did not much help her to explain herself.

“Sweetheart,” he said, looking earnestly at her, “I will never hurt you; I should sooner sail to St. Helena and bring Bonaparte back.”

“I wasn’t accusing you, sir— I—” she managed to free one hand, and caressed his cheek. Her tone was breathless but playful as she said, “Sir— I— I don’t suppose you realize that you are a very easy sort of man to fall in love with. And then you must be so kind to me, I — oh!” Words seemed to fail her; she put her hand to the back of his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him, and then to bury her hot face against his shoulder.

Stannis shifted so that she could put her arms about his neck and cling to him, and pressed kisses and whispered endearments into her disheveled hair. “Would it be so very bad, sweetheart,” he said, “if you did fall in love with me? You must know by now, how I feel about you.”

She trembled against him.

“Don’t overthink it, my love,” he said. “You don’t have to be ashamed of anything you want, my dear, not with me.” He followed this with a demonstration of how good he was at fulfilling her wants, one that Sansa seemed to find damnably persuasive. She groaned against his shoulder as she reached the height of her pleasure, and Stannis couldn’t help but follow.

Once he had recovered himself, he carefully eased out of her; but, as she was unwilling to let go of him or move her face from his shoulder, they remained laying entwined at their ease. He held her now more tenderly, brushing the hair off her hot face. “There now, my love. It’s alright. I don’t know why it is every Englishwoman of good breeding gets taught it’s hell itself to get what you want.”

“Probably to keep us from going after it,” Sansa said, in rather a shaking voice.

“Ha.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though he would’ve preferred to have kept to his room all day, preferably with Sansa in his arms, Stannis’ attendance was required at a meaningfully timed military review. It was sheer misery, watching the men form line and square, as they had done a year earlier, and he wanted to punch someone when all the European officials who had come to celebrate Britain’s military might applauded and laughed and smiled, as if this was merely entertainment, as if real men had not died and died in agony while doing these same maneuvers.

Outwards, he was careful to seem utterly unmoved by the anniversary or by bad memories. He was cool and unflappable, so imperturbable atop his horse, so still, he felt as if he had been carved from marble. His limbs felt heavy as marble, too.

He was coming from a meeting at the mayor of Cambrai’s estate, his aides about him in a stately train, when Sansa’s voice reached his ears. “Your Grace!”

Stannis looked over at her as she reigned in, flushed, muddy, and smelling strongly of horse lather, and smiled for the first time that day. He still remembered her when she’d first come on campaign with the Colonel, claiming she was in no way a horsewoman. _That has clearly changed!_ He thought smugly, knowing it was in part his preference to ride out, and her preference to keep him company, that had made her such. “Mrs. Tyrell, you appear to have lost your escort.”

“Oh yes, will you help me find them?”

Stannis did not need much more of an excuse to part from either his aides or Cambrai, and rode over to join her. Sansa suggested they— just the two of them— take the long way back to his home in Cambrai, around the fields surrounding the town.

“Are you the only escort I need, then?” Stannis asked affectionately.

“I am your last line of defense, according to Lord Varys,” said Sansa, “and your poor horse was on show all day! I think he’s in need of a good gallop.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

The race began without another word. They raced off through the countryside with every expectation of enjoyment, both aware that there were no known threats that day— the town was full of patrolling guards and heavily armed redcoats— and both aware that Sansa was guarding his privacy more than anything else. Stannis had explained to her once that unless he had some time away from people each day he grew irritable in the extreme, and Sansa had learnt how to preserve this for him while still remaining nearby. He felt himself growing less stiff the longer they rode. He was in better spirits by the time they dropped from gallop to canter and canter to trot.

“I didn’t mean to take this from you,” said Sansa. “I mean, I did not mean to so curtail your freedom by insisting on a guard. I hope you don’t think that I did.”

“I think, perhaps, the social contract is a balance between liberty and security,” Stannis reluctantly admitted. “I know you always fall on the side of liberty, but I must on security. It was necessary to give up my solitary rides. Ironic you should tell me so, but there it is.”

“You must have a little liberty,” protested Sansa. “I cannot think it possible, even for you, to be in control all the time.”

“I can but try,” said Stannis dryly.

They parted to wash before dinner. At dinner, she was at his left as usual, but it soon became clear to him that the effort of trying to maintain his control, and to fight chaos into order, had exhausted him. Only military habit seemed to be keeping him upright; he hardly paid attention to any of the conversations whirling about him, and was uninterested in his plate or the contents of it. He had been putting on his usual battlefield front for the benefit of his household, and all the officers and men and their wives, and all the foreign dignitaries, and the British holidayers, and all the French Bonapartists looking for an opportunity to rebel— the list seemed endless. He was tired, and dejected, and sorely in want of some peace and quiet.

After dinner he took his usual chair by the fire and took up a newspaper that he could not be bothered to actually read. When the others became engrossed in a game of faro, Sansa came over to take the seat across from him. She curled up on the seat, shins pressed against one arm of the chair, the other arm of the chair pressing comfortingly against the small of her back. She balanced a book on her knees.

Stannis folded up his newspaper and looked at her with a weary, unguarded fondness. “It’s been a day, Mrs. T.”

“It has,” she said, holding her place with her forefinger. “It has been a year, really.”

“True enough.” But he did not look away from her, and at length began to feel better. “It was not a year without consolation entirely.”

She agreed to this. “Yes; all told, I am in better spirits today than I thought I would be. I know it is entirely due to you, Your Grace. I know all England is glad of you today, if not all Europe, but I am not sure there is anyone else alive who is as glad of you as I am.”

“For what particularly, my dear?”

She flicked her gaze over him flirtatiously. “I daren’t say in mixed company.”

He cracked a small smile. “Minx.”

“I suppose I ought to be a virtuous citizen and say peace in Europe, or a be a good daughter-in-law and begin with the Royal Army Medical bill, but the thing that first floated to mind was your convincing me that forgoing all custom of exercise was doing more harm than good. I hate to agree with my mother—” Stannis really smiled at that “—but she thinks you the first gentleman in Europe and I am hard pressed to doubt her. There is so much consideration in your actions— towards me particularly but towards everyone, even the least of your men. In all the battles I have observed and even in the ones I have only heard of, you never squandered your men, like Napoleon or his marshals.”

“I couldn’t afford to waste ‘em,” said Stannis. “Horse Guards wouldn’t send me replacements. Boney’s levée en masse meant he could get as many men as he needed to throw against his enemy of the day.”

“You won’t convince me, you know,” she said. “I know you think your men remarkably fine fellows and are grieved when you lose them.” This was dangerous territory. She seemed to know this and steered it gently to, “And besides, didn’t you tell me yourself you never engaged in battle unless you were confident of winning?”

“I think that probably a tribute more to my pride than my gentlemanlike manner, but by all means, attribute every action of mine to the virtues you most value. I shan’t interrupt you.”

Sansa laughed at him. “And do you attribute it to your sense of pride that you have been so good to me?”

“Sense of reason, dear girl. I know you are not impressed with rank or fortune; if I am to convince you to stick with me I have really only myself to offer. I had better be the best version of that self.”

A curious warmth filled his breast when she looked down at her book and blushed. “Whatever the reason, you have made me happier than I ever expected to be after.…” She made a gesture, as if to encompass all Waterloo.

“You are also sadder than I am sure you thought you would be when you were first married. That is in part my fault.”

Sansa wrinkled her nose at him. “Unless you deliberately had a French rifleman shoot Colonel Tyrell in the arm, I cannot see how. If you had not been directing the battle… Well, in short, I don’t think it a useful exercise to indulge in might-have-beens; there is only the reality in which we live and we must bear the consequences as they are, not as we would wish them to be.”

“I did, my dear, order him to Hougoumont.”

“That wasn’t what killed him,” she replied, but tears were rushing to her eyes.

Stannis cast an eye towards the company, and then reached out a little, to rest his hand on her knee. “I know, sweet girl. It’s been a day for you, too.”

She closed her eyes and muttered something about the smoke from the fire.

Stannis squeezed her knee and said, “I’ll attend to it.”

Lord Massey came over a little after that; and after the tea things had been set out, Sansa retired for the evening. Stannis retired shortly after to his room and waited for some time in his dressing gown. Only after it had gone one o’clock, did he feel safe enough to make his way to her room.

Upon his knock, he heard her call out, “If you can help me with my buttons you can come in, and if not you can go to the devil.”

He came in and locked the door, saying, “I am always pleased to render you any service, my dear, but where on earth is your maid?”

“Out for the evening,” Sansa said, while trying a valiant attack on the buttons at the back of her gown.

“Why not ring for another maid? I know you value your independence, but you needn’t dislocate your shoulder in the exercise of it.”

She had been able to reach the bottom buttons well enough, and they were gaping open, but there were three about and above her shoulderblades that evaded every questing fingertip. “Oh pride. I gave my maid the evening off rather impulsively, just after dressing for dinner. Did you know she has been with me since I married the Colonel? Usually on nights when I put myself to bed, Miss Poole puts me in a gown I can pull off over my head, and I didn’t want to show myself up to your servants as being utterly helpless without her. But I thought she might want to be with the rest of the regiment, or what is left of it this evening. Colonel Payne was really very decent about finding Colonel Tyrell’s men, or most of them, places in his regiment.”

“I think your maid is probably in a tavern somewhere instead,” Stannis said, locking the door to the servant’s corridor as well.

“As I said, with the rest of the regiment.”

Stannis came up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She dropped her hands to her sides and looked up at him. He looked down at her with an amused fondness.

“I wasn’t sure you would come this evening,” Sansa admitted.

“You weren’t?”

“I’m glad you did,” she said, tilting up her face to be kissed. “I wanted you, but I did not wish to add to the list of onerous duties placed upon you today.”

He obliged her with a long and lingering kiss. “Dear girl, you will never get me to agree that making love to you is an onerous duty.” He made quick work of the buttons and slid the gown from her shoulders. The purple silk pooled on the floor. He lightly ran his fingertips up and down her exposed upper arms and said, “I must confess too, my dear.”

“Confess what?”

He bent to kiss her jaw, by her ear, and whispered, “I did not come here this evening with talking in mind.”

“Rogue,” said Sansa, happily.

He seized her upper arms and pulled her against him, before kissing her mercilessly. Sansa melted into his embrace. It was a profound relief to give themselves over to pleasure, to have nothing more required of him than to worship the beautiful girl in his arms. It was not long until she was struggling a little against his grip, eager to hold him, to be closer to him.

“Now, now,” Stannis murmured, holding her about the waist in such a way that her arms were pinned, but not uncomfortably so. “Just because I do not mean to talk does not mean we must rush.”

“But I want you,” protested Sansa, rather impatiently.

Stannis had been lavishing attention on her neck and chuckled. His laugh seemed to go shivering through her and she tilted her head back. “Minx,” he said, dropping a kiss on her collarbone, before releasing her. “On the bed. Hands and knees, there’s a good girl.”

Sansa went eagerly to do so, but paused by the side of the bed, fumbling at the ties of her petticoats.

“Women’s fashion,” Stannis sighed. “Always such a torment. Either it teases with what it reveals, or it conceals in so complicated a way as to baffle the Royal Engineers. What can’t you get yourself?”

She managed to untie her petticoats as he spoke, and let them fall to the floor where she stood, but she wore long stays and those always had back closures. “If you just loosen my stays, I can slip out of them.”

Stannis made an absolute mess of the ribbons, and grew so frustrated he tore her shift when trying to pull that off at the same time as her stays.

He tossed off his own clothes very carelessly, and took her with a degree of impatience Sansa seemed to find most exciting. His fingers dug into her hips forcefully— enough to make Sansa gasp a little— as he drove into her. She squirmed against his grip, which only caused him to hold her more firmly in place. Instead of submitting, she continued to shift against him, without success.

“Out with it, love,” he said, a little raggedly. “What's wrong? Too rough?”

“No,” she said, but kept fussing about. “The angle’s not quite— I'm so nearly there but it’s not—”

“Ah. Easily fixed.” Stannis snaked his arm about her waist and hauled her upright. She was still on her knees, but his chest was against her back and she could rest her head against his shoulder if she wished. Then, thrusting into her, he asked, “Better?”

“Oh yes ,” Sansa said, closing her eyes in bliss.

Almost lazily, Stannis trailed his fingertips over the curve of her stomach and between her legs. She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped her as she arched her back and pressed down against him, aching for more.

“What an impatient creature you are,” he whispered against her neck. His voice was low and rough; his breath stirred the short wisps of hair at the nape of her neck too short to be pinned.

“Terribly,” she got out. She turned pantingly towards him, briefly pressing her forehead against his cheek, as if in supplication.

Stannis kept her teasingly, teeteringly near the brink. At her faint noise of complaint, he asked innocently, "Do you want something, my dear?"

“Oh you’re a wretch!” She groaned and tried to shift, to get what she needed herself, but his grip tightened and she was frustratingly, wonderfully pressed up against him. “Sir, please. ”

His smug smirk was very much in his voice when he said, “You had only to ask.” He pressed the heel of his hand into her lower abdomen in order to stroke her more forcefully. With her hips now freed, she could press back against him, meeting his thrusts. The pressure built maddeningly. “Satisfied now, you minx?”

“Almost—oh yes, there— ”

“I’ve got you, Sansa,” he whispered against her neck. The first shivers of her pleasure grew steadily stronger. “I need you, darling—I need you to come apart for me— that’s it, love, you feel damned wonderful, let me feel you lose control—”

Her breath caught in her throat as she pushed down against him, wanting to be as close to him as possible, to be separated by not so much as a centimeter— he thrust into her deeply, firmly, and she at last convulsed around him.

All coherency was lost in waves of euphoria. Every part of him felt as if it was vibrating. It felt like several good minutes before he stopped feeling a shaking delight radiating through his body. He was out of breath, and very much in the affectionate mood he always fell into after his release.

“Oh my sweet girl, how I love you,” he said, or something very like, as she continued to tremble against him, panting for breath. Her hair was still up; she hadn’t the chance to do more than take off her veil before he came in, but he stroked back the now slightly sweaty curls at her temple and kissed her there. “I never can deny you anything for long, as a result. Really, my love, you could ask anything of me and I’d give it you, if it was in my power.”

She sagged against his iron grip, limp, sated, utterly relaxed, and said, “That was... well! ”

“Only well ,” he said, mock-chidingly. “Really, my dear, you bring me to such heights I bare my heart to you, and you say it was well!”

She laughed at him. He was very hard pressed not to be offended. “You cannot be so good at this and then expect me to have any degree of coherence afterwards. Good God , sir!”

Slightly mollified by her obvious delight, Stannis stroked his hand down to her jaw and turned her face to kiss him. After his heartbeat had slowed again, he brushed his lips across her cheek before whispering in her ear, “Feel better, my dear?”

Sansa made a sleepy noise of agreement, and was instantly asleep.

Sleep, however, did not come easily to him. He tossed and turned all night, and at first light, the time in which, a year ago, he’d been awoken to be read the list of the dead, he reached for her once more, eager to take her. Sansa sleepily obliged, saying she was happy to do so as long as she could remain on her back, and he pinned her down and plunged into her at once. There was a single-minded ferocity to his attentions that usually was not there. He was silently driving on as if trying to exhaust himself. He knew he was not being himself. Stannis was not the sort of person who pursued oblivion in any form. He liked to have his wits about him at all times, to be in control of himself or any situation in which he found himself.

The candle had given up the ghost and the fire had been banked for the evening; it was difficult to see her expression. Sansa reached up and cupped his face in both her hands, murmuring, “My darling— my dear—” before bringing him down for a kiss. “I know,” she whispered against his lips. “I know, it’s alright. Lose control for me. I’ve got you.” To his surprise, this was all it took. He shuddered against her, before nearly collapsing on top of her.

Sansa reached out and tucked the pillows behind her back and neck, before wrapping herself around him and holding tight. “Oh my love,” she said softly, as he buried his face against her bare breast.

He clung tightly to her, saying nothing, but every line of his body remained taut with an anguish too deep for words. There was nothing to say in the face of this pain, nothing left to do but cry. He knew she felt it too— the crushing weight of memory, the horror of what she had seen.

Before Sansa, his physical needs had been separate from his emotional ones. Davos had met his emotional needs, and he had gone to satisfy his physical needs with courtesans or other ladies of the ton whom he liked well enough, but did not really care for. She was the first person who was both friend and lover to him. He could not quite satisfy one sort of need in pursuit of the other. They were still too separate.

And yet here he was, trying for her, turning to her in such vulnerability as he had not shown to anyone else in years. Stannis lay with his head upon her breast, eyes closed, his breathing uneven, determined to display his trust in her, in his willingness to let fall the public persona he maintained around everyone else, to show his agitation and upset over Waterloo, in the relative safety of her arms, in the security of her discretion and affection.

“It’s alright, Stannis,” Sansa said, stroking back the gray at his temples. His breath hitched as a strong sob wrecked his frame. He clung to her tightly, and she in turn tightened her embrace. “I’ve got you, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed (all mistakes are mine, and please feel free to point them out!).
> 
> Also, is "they have a ridiculous amount of sex" a valid tag? And if so, should I add it?


	10. In Which Mrs. Tyrell Quits Her Mourning (and All Ends Happily)

It was with bated breath that Stannis awaited Sansa’s arrival for breakfast. Conversation flowed around him, jars of delicacies traded hands, but all Stannis seemed capable of doing was push food around his plate (it tasted blander than usual, to his less-than-discerning palate) and steal covert glances at the doorway.

When at last she appeared, a magnificent vision in a sky blue muslin, he found himself standing up to greet her. Others did not feel equally moved, fools that they were, but many commented how lovely she looked, how fine her muslin was, and how the color complimented her eyes. His gaze remained heavily focused on her as she took her customary seat at his left, and felt rewarded when she turned to offer him a tentative smile.

“You look…” he started, but trailed off, speechless, and offered her a pot of marmalade instead. Rallying, he tried again- “It is very nice to see you in color again, Mrs. T. That shade of blue particularly suits you. Are you happy to quit your blacks?”

She colored deeply. “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel as if I have run a marathon and am just now catching my breath.” She chewed thoughtfully on her toast and said, “About… about what was said yesterday…”

“Yes?”

“To sprint into something else too quickly strikes me as a good way to injure myself, and take out any innocent bystander who tries to help me along.”

He put down his coffee cup and frowned, a little concerned. Yesterday had been bliss, or as close to it as he was likely to come in this life. He had all but proposed, and she had seemed happy enough… “You do not wish…?”

“Oh no,” she hastened to assure him, raising her eyes to meet his. “I mean, I do! Wish it! Very much so. I cannot tell you how much. But, I—not yet , that is all. I still worry what people will say.” Then, fearing that all eyes were upon them, she immediately proposed a game of cricket for the children once they had finished breakfast. The children were thrilled by the suggestion, and doubly so when Shireen shyly confessed she’d never played and they realized they would have the benefit of teaching her. Stannis, puzzled and not a little bit hurt, threw himself into the activity.

The Earl of Highgarden was in the field with him, watching Sansa pitch to Shireen. The Earl cleared his throat significantly. Stannis, who had been steadily growing hopeful of gaining a wife and possibly more children, tended to be rather sentimentally absorbed by the sight of Sansa with his daughter, but tore his eyes away. “Sir?”

Highgarden said, awkwardly, “I am sure you have noticed that second marriages are very uncommon within our family.”

Stannis frowned, believing he was about to be reproached. “Sir, I—”

Highgarden raised a hand, struggled with himself, and said, “Our family has always believed that there is only one person for whom you are ordained by God to love— as a spouse, that is— and a second match... well, a second match is improbable, if not impossible, but I would not have you think I would characterize a second marriage as unthinkable or somehow immoral. My own mother, Lady Olenna— she married twice. Her soulmate was an Iroquois chief, killed during the Seven Years’ War in America. She was utterly heartbroken at his loss. But she knew her duty to her family, and married my father about two years later. Very admirable action on her part, and I do not think she was unhappy. She is the current Lady Ravenshaw, and has three healthy children by her second husband. She had no children from her first, and I cannot help but think a woman is very unhappy without children.” He cleared his throat again. “The longing for children is natural and just, and should be considered with due seriousness.”

Stannis confusedly agreed to this.

“And too,” said Highgarden, now looking at Sansa, “there are duties one owes to society. A man who does not see the influence of women, in the formation and cohesion of our society, is a man too stupid for office. And, too, set ideas must sometimes be put aside as untenable. Pragmaticism is the lifeblood of politics, indeed, of England.”

Stannis cleared his throat awkwardly, even as realization dawned. It seemed that though Sansa could admit to her love in private, she was not sure she had the resources, yet, to admit it to her in-laws, for fear of censure. She had come a long way, and Lady Tully was a good teacher, but the girl remained willingly blind to the ambitions of the Tyrells. She was possibly still, quite naively, in Stannis’ opinion, assuming that they would frown upon their marriage rather than see it for the opportunity it was – winning the Duke of Dragonstone to their side. And by god, he was more than willing to do so, but only for the right to call Sansa _his_.

“You are very wise to say so, sir,” Stannis gritted through clenched teeth. “I wonder, have you shared these thoughts with your daughter-in-law? She was very much in love with your son, you see, and seems to be operating under the impression that…”

“Whatever she decides,” Highgarden interjected, chest puffing like a frog, “we will all of us support her.” He paused, rethinking Stannis’ words, and finally seemed to be catching on. A satisfied smile overtook his features, and Stannis had to grind his teeth to keep from saying something very uncivilized.

“I believe I am due a conversation with my dear daughter-in-law,” Highgarden said, and clapped his back in what was, perhaps, meant as a friendly gesture. Stannis nodded, and was extremely glad to find it was his turn to bowl. From the corner of his eye, he followed the Earl as he approached Sansa with a gleam in his eye, taking her hand and turning her away, into the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When it was time for dinner, Stannis felt so nervous he was moved to put on full uniform, partly in the hopes of intimidating the Earl and avoid another conversation with him, and partly because he was well-aware Sansa had something of a weakness for full regalia.

Lady Tully was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “You might want to take a look at the roses,” she said, smiling beatifically. “They are in season, and your gardener truly does wonders with them.”

Stannis knew better than to argue, and made his way to the garden. He had no interest in roses whatsoever, but the sight of Sansa walking dazedly about, lost in thought, was indeed captivating. He watched as she ran her fingertips over their velvety petals, carefully avoiding the thorns, as she pulled down a branch of tree roses to better smell them.

Spurred to action, he grabbed at her waist with one hand, pleased when she leaned automatically into the touch, and embraced her fully from behind, placing a kiss to the delicate column of her neck.

Closing her eyes and sighing, Sansa said, “I really hope that is you, Stannis, or I shall have exposed myself to terrible ridicule.”

“How fortunate for you it is me,” he said, amused. “Lady Tully hinted I ought to check out the roses. I was just thinking, my dear— do you recall the last time I came upon you arranging flowers? At Riverrun House, I mean, some months back.”

“Yes, and I should blush to admit how often I think on it. I never knew until then that it could be so…” Sansa colored and leaned back against him, enjoying the soft trail of kisses down the line of her jaw. “Oh! I can’t speak coherently when you do that, Your Grace.”

“Ah, sweet girl,” he whispered. “It was about then I suspected I was in far deeper than I anticipated. You speak of my being easy to fall in love with, but you, my dear… ha! I’ve been less stunned by full canonades.”

Sansa rewarded him with a breathless laugh and turned about in his arms. She placed her palms flat against his chest, delicate fingers toying with his braid, and smiled up at him. She was wearing his birthday gift upon her wrist, which caused Stannis to openly smile.

“Still like it?” he asked, kissing her palm distractedly.

“Oh yes, very much. In fact, I think it my favorite piece. Today it is my favorite piece.”

“Because it so brings out the color of your eyes?”

She laughed. “Ridiculous man! It is because you gave it me.”

“Ha! And is that all?”

Sansa dropped her hands to her side and blushed beautifully. “Surely you know!”

“Yes, but it gives me such pleasure to hear it.” Then, lightly, “And, my dear, you have never said it fully clothed.”

“Because I… I have fallen very much in love with you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, my love,” he said, and his very tone was a caress. Stannis brushed his lips over hers, achingly sweet, and infinitely gentle.

The kiss felt oddly like a first. There was a newness to it, a freshness, a sense that something new and special and wondrous was being expressed by the touch of his lips to her own. His breath caught in his throat; he felt giddy and strange, so caught up in her— and all this from so light a touch, so soft and so gentle. When he slowly pulled away, he felt a sense of wonder tinged with euphoria. Sansa kept her eyes closed for a moment, as though afraid to break so fine, so delicate a happiness. The darkness was falling, and as she opened her eyes, Stannis had the impression of having drawn a fragrant curtain about them. In the dusk there was no barrier between them; only between them and the world.

When at last she raised her eyes to his face, he had on the crooked half-smile he considered her exclusive property, as she alone could provoke it. She regarded him with a profound and obvious tenderness. There was so much of love in her expression— he had always seen it but only guessed at the depth. Now he felt it, sunk into it, luxuriated in it, revelled in the knowledge that he was loved and loved thoroughly. In the security of this, her “Stannis, I love you,” was spoken softly, but with utter conviction.

Stannis spread his fingers, cupped her cheek in his hand. “Oh my sweet girl, my darling, my Sansa—” He ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek. “Did I even know what love was ‘til you?”

He realized this was a question she could not answer, but briefly leaned his forehead against hers, as if drawing courage from the touch before asking one to which she could reply: “I know this has already been far too eventful a day, but we might as well recall it with more pleasure than pain.” He drew back to meet her eyes, and oh, how her look made him melt. Stannis asked, softly, “Sansa, will you marry me?”

Her heartfelt elation at this could not be contained, it seemed. He knew not how many times she giddily exclaimed, “Yes!” or how she came to be kissing him, but found that he was incandescently happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At dinner, Stannis enjoyed being mysterious and deftly avoiding questions from his household as to why he was in such an ebullient mood. “Unless I am very seriously mistaken, a man is entitled to enjoy dinner,” Stannis said, serving up the leg of lamb he’d carved.

An uneasy titter of laughter spread about the table. The Tyrells were watching him like vultures. _Let them wait a minute longer_ , he though smugly. _Let them fear all their machinations were for naught._

“We will be sad to depart to London, Your Grace,” Highgarden offered in a stilted voice. “You have been a gracious host, and I daresay my grandchildren will feel the loss of Lady Shireen most keenly.”

Stannis set down the carving knife and said, in an airy, only slightly smug tone, “I have to take my daughter to her mother in August. And I’m confident by then both Mrs. Tyrell and my daughter will have concocted a scheme to gather us all in one place or another. They will have to discuss it.”

Sansa shot him a warning look. Lady Tully said, with exasperation, “Your Grace, you cannot mean to kidnap Mrs. Tyrell in August, simply because dear Shireen has grown attached.”

“No,” said Stannis, “but I can go fetch my wife, can I not? What say you to being married in England, in August, Sansa, my dear?”

Sansa feigned indecision, tapping a finger against her chin, as the rest of the table tried to figure out if the Duke of Dragonstone had really just proposed to Mrs. Tyrell in the middle of carving a leg of lamb. “I would prefer to be married in France in June, but I suppose the outcry would be too great.”

“Darling girl,” he said, with a fond smile, “I admire your dispatch, but really. Married in France . Don’t ask such a dreadful thing of me. What say we marry in July, but in London?”

Sansa laughed. “A very reasonable compromise, Your Grace. You have become such a politician!”

“What?” Mrs. Tully asked blankly.

“Mrs. Tully, my dear, Mrs. T. has agreed to marry me,” said Stannis, turning to smile at Sansa, with an aspect of pure contentment. “In July, in London, apparently.”

“This is an odd joke, sir,” Lord Tully said, flummoxed, though the Tyrells were all nudging each other and looking pleased and smug.

“It’s no joke,” said Stannis, taking Sansa’s hand from where it rested on the table and raising it to his lips. “Mrs. Tyrell did me the great honor of accepting my proposal perhaps half-an-hour ago, in the rose garden. We are engaged.”

The table erupted into loud congratulations, and at least two exclamations of, “I knew it!” which then settled into various wishes for happiness and questions about weddings and honeymoons and the like. Indeed, the announcement of their engagement did not come as a surprise to anyone, after the initial surprise that Sansa had agreed to it so soon. Almost everyone was eager to claim responsibility for the engagement, during dinner and afterwards. Stannis privately thought that Lady Tully, who acted as if she had no role in the proceedings whatever, was honestly the only person who could claim an interest aside from Sansa and himself. But Sansa laughingly gave Shireen credit after dinner, which caused his daughter to swell with pride and strut about the drawing room like a military parade of one.

Sansa and Stannis were two of the last to retire to bed, and he gently seized her by the left wrist and drew her towards him when they were alone in the drawing room.

“Oh Your Grace,” said Sansa, glancing at the open door, but making no move to escape. “What will people say if they see us?”

“That the Duke of Dragonstone has done very well for himself,” he replied, placing her arm about his waist.

“I’m shocked you’re not dead on your feet,” said Sansa, resting her right hand on his chest.

“Second wind,” Stannis replied. “It’s not every day a man’s proposal of marriage is accepted by so lovely a woman as you, my dear.” He put a finger to her chin and tilted her face up, and looked at her smilingly, every feature radiating contentment. “I almost feel inclined to dance the flamenco. But, as that would require my letting go of you, I must resist the impulse.”

“That is praise indeed! I shall always treasure the knowledge that you are as happy at becoming engaged to me as by hearing of Napoleon’s abdication.”

“Minx,” he said, tracing the curve of her lower lip with his thumb. “Give your maid the night off, will you?”

“Oh sir,” Sansa teased. “What will my fiancé say if I admit you to my chambers tonight?”

“‘Thank you,’ on top of all his usual nonsense,” he replied dryly.

Sansa laughed.

Stannis pressed his thumb against the seam of her lips, until she kissed it. “Sweet girl, you don’t mean to lock me out until I’ve made an honest woman of you, do you?”

Sansa shook her head, smiling. “You are a rogue, Your Grace.”

“And you love me for it,” he replied, with an easy smile.

“God help me, I do.”

When he came to her that evening, there was a different quality to his kisses, to his touch. Stannis was hard put to explain it, and so continued to kiss her, trying to determine what had changed. It was a playfulness, almost, and yet there was a contentedness to it. Stannis was happy to kiss longer than was their habit, running his hands up and down her body as if mapping her anew. But when he tossed her onto the bed with his usual strength, and held her wrists pinned above her head with one hand, he still was no closer to interpreting that inexplicable quality that now tinged this physical manifestation of their affection.

“What is it, my sweet girl?” he asked, pausing when he felt her keen gaze.

“Stannis,” she said, thoughtful, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Really, my dear,” he said, pulling back to look down at her. “You’ve been my mistress since February and only now do you realize I enjoy myself when I am in your bed?”

She laughed. “I phrased that very ill indeed! Your mood is… different, that is all. In a less dignified man I might call it ebullience.”

Stannis flicked her cheek affectionately with his free hand. She knew him quite well, his darling girl. “Sweetheart, that giddiness is all due to you. I never thought anyone would love me as you do. And now I may flaunt it before all the world.”

“Oh Stannis,” she said, melting. “I would embrace you, but you’ve got me pinned.”

“Indeed, I think I should like to have you tied,” he said musingly. “What would you say to that, my sweet girl?”

“Oh yes ,” Sansa replied, flushing.

“I’ve never enjoyed myself more with a woman than with you,” he confessed, playfully biting at a breast. “I didn’t think it before but it makes a difference when you love the person to whom you are making love.”

“Wretch!” But she held out her hands to be tied.

“I do mean it,” Stannis said, looping the silk about her wrists. “Make sure you can get out of that if you need to. Yes— here, let me loosen it a little. Better? Good. Sansa, I know you are the sort of woman who likes to be adored. And rightfully so. I shall be so doting a husband you will soon grow tired of me.”

“I could never,” she cried.

“You’re a voracious one, too; I can’t imagine how I’d have the time or energy to satisfy you propely. I’m getting old, you know.”

“Stannis!“

“Even when you say my name in that thoroughly annoyed tone of voice I find it endearing,” Stannis said, and pulling her towards him by her bound hands, kissed her thoroughly. “Sansa,” he said, voice low and rough. “I am not entirely in jest. I’m very much set in my ways, and old enough to be your father. You are all I shall ever need, but do you think you could be content with only me?”

“All my days,” Sansa replied. Then blushingly, “Stannis do you think perhaps you could— earlier this week, when you took me from behind— I liked that very much indeed.”

“Have you any objection to my tying your hands to the bedpost as I do so?”

She eagerly agreed to this plan.

“Look how far you’ve come, sweet girl,” Stannis marveled, kissing the back of her neck, before tying her wrists to the bedpost. “When we first began you couldn’t even bring yourself to even speak of making love except in blushes and ellipses, and now—“

“By the time we are married a year I shall beg you to do the most depraved things to me every night.”

He raised her shift. “Do you promise, my dear?”

Before she could answer, he slid into her, and for some time, both were quite incapable of speech. It was not a rushed and frantic coupling. He took his time, teasing her, touching her, and for all his roughness, there was an underlying quality of care to it. It was not long before he achieved his objective, and she had to bury her face in the crook of her arm to stifle her cry. He followed not long after.

“You’ve distracted me,” she said, when she could breathe again. Stannis fondly stroked her hair with one hand, the other still gripping her hip, still recovering from his own release. “I… what was my point. I’m sure I had one.”

“I hardly recall.” He untied her and kissed the insides of her wrists.

“Oh!” she half-gasped. “Now I recall!” She fought her way out of his embrace, which he found most displeasing. With her hand braced against his chest she rose above him, her hair a glorious crimson halo about her fair features. She was smiling happily, and he was a besotted fool. “My love,” she said, cupping his jaw tenderly, “I am certain of it - ours is a partnership destined for success.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**A Year Later**

Scarcely had Sansa announced they were expecting, and been buried under more letters and well wishes than even her marriage had commanded, than the Prince Regent decided that it was time for him to see the battlefield of Waterloo.

Stannis sent His Royal Highness directions to Belgium, and offered the Prince Regent the pick of his aides. The Prince Regent protested that no, no, he very much wished the Duke of Dragonstone to show him the battlefield and to explain all that had occurred. Sansa had known that, when the Prince Regent announced he’d be throwing their wedding breakfast, it would come with conditions. She hadn’t expected the conditions to be quite so severe as this.

“Can we not use this as an excuse?” Sansa asked her husband. Their linked hands rested on the now pronounced curve of her abdomen. She pressed their hands down.

“Using your pregnancy as a shield? Tsk tsk Lady Dragonstone. I somehow doubt that’s recommended in The Art of War. ”

“I’ve always been particularly good at improvisational weaponry,” she replied.

Stannis had been resting his head upon her bare breast and raised his head to look at her with fond exasperation. “I cannot deny that. Hm. I know you hate it, but the Prince Regent still thinks you a delicate, fainting sort of creature….”

“Oh alright,” she said. “The things I do for you, Stannis! I would not feign to be St. Sansa for any reason other than getting you out of a tiresome engagement with the Prince Regent.”

“For this sacrifice, I salute you,” he said, and, choosing to interpret this the drawing room rather than barracks room way, kissed her thoroughly.

Stannis sent a polite note that his wife was undergoing a difficult first pregnancy and he dare not leave her side. The Prince Regent offered his hearty congratulations and insisted that the Duchess of Dragonstone accompany them. He would have his own doctor accompany them.

And so Sansa found herself someplace she told herself she’d never visit, in a condition she never thought she would be in. It felt very odd to be on a battlefield and have everyone refer to her as ‘Lady Dragonstone or ‘Your Grace’ instead of ‘Mrs. Tyrell.’ And, of course, it had taken the Prince Regent three months to settle all his plans, so Sansa felt so hugely pregnant she would tip over at any moment. Stannis was tense and unhappy, and the only outlet he had was to fuss over her. Sansa was glad to make herself— or rather her pregnancy— an excuse to get out of anything she did not wish to do, and spent most of her evenings sitting in her room with Mrs. Payne, playing Patience, or sitting with her husband by the fire, as he quietly read his paper and she made baby clothes Stannis thought too complex, but were barely a challenge for her skill at the needle.

During the day she could not always get out of being carted about to places the Prince Regent found of interest, though she tried her best to come up with increasingly elaborate medical problems to keep from seeing places where her friends had died. There was only one place she went quietly, without protest, or without first stealing one of the doctor’s medical textbooks and insisting that she had some new and rare disease. The Prince Regent had a great desire to see Mont St. Jean, the Protestant Church where most of the English officers had been buried. Sansa went into the carriage without a word and merely held tight to Stannis’ arm.

When the Prince Regent and all his entourage were occupied in looking about the church, Sansa squeezed her husband’s arm. This was enough; he nodded and said, “Do you want Mrs. Payne with you?”

Sansa’s heart ached with love for her husband. Many considered him taciturn, even heartless. But without the heat of his love and affection she would’ve wilted and died, she was sure of it. His devotion sustained her, gave her purpose. And he understood her better than she did herself; not only that – he accepted her completely.

“I think….” Sansa paused. She had fallen into the habit of rubbing circles over her navel when she was uneasy, as if to reassure her child that no similar alarms or worries would ever visit them, and flattened her palm against her stomach. “No, I… I want to go see it alone.”

“I’ll come find you when we’re done here,” said Stannis, quietly.

Sansa snuck out, as best she could given her size and her current ungainliness. It did not take her long to find all the graves of the Waterloo dead, but it took her longer than anticipated to find Colonel Tyrell’s, for weeds had grown about the tombstone.

She was utterly appalled by this and lowered herself to her knees, ripping out the weeds herself, clearing away dirt and dead leaves until each graven word could be clearly seen. Stannis found her there still in that attitude, awkwardly kneeling before Colonel Tyrell’s gravestone, weeding with her right hand, her left curved protectively, now habitually, about her stomach. Stannis didn’t say anything. Sansa was grateful to him for it; for his quiet understanding. She sat back on her heels when the weeds had all been cleared, and contemplated the stone.

He rested his hand lightly, gently between her shoulder blades; more an affirmation of his presence than anything else.

“I haven’t,” Sansa said, and then carefully corrected herself, “I hadn’t … I hadn’t been back since….”

“I know, my dear,” Stannis said gently. He had been there, after all, the last time she had stood before this gravestone.

“And I remember how terribly muddy it was, all those… piles and piles of bare dirt, it was so awful, and now there’s… there’s weeds growing up so thick you can scarcely see the names of the men buried here. And it….”

Since becoming pregnant, Sansa was much quicker to cry than even she usually was, and now her vision blurred. She swallowed and asked thickly, “Stannis, did you ever visit Davos’ grave?”

“No,” he said, after a minute. “Selyse told me, of course, that her cousin had been shipped home in a brandy barrel and was buried in Ireland, in the family cemetery, as soon as she learned of it, but she....” He sighed, and moved his hand to rest on the exposed nape of Sansa’s neck, his fingers brushing the sort wisps of hair that always escaped from pins and pomade. “We never talked of our marks, after the god-awful wedding night, but I realized then that she knew. She’d guessed. Or perhaps Davos had told her, though that seems unlikely to me. We were both horribly embarrassed to realize we were a match, since we hadn’t the least desire to sleep with one another. Even after we realized Plato was our particular gospel there was still such a risk of misinterpretation, of having the purest friendship of one’s life tarnished and considered something shameful and tawdry by the general public. But to return to the point, Selyse guessed and I knew her interpretation was the one Davos and I had always feared, and killed any desire I had to visit his grave. All her family would think what she did.”

“You know, there would be nothing shameful about it if it had been—”

“Yes, my dear, I know you’d think that, given your first husband. But I didn’t want— and still don’t want— the truest friend of my life to be called anything but my friend by the public, or by the history books. I think, given your friendship with Renly, you can understand the desire to have your soulmate recognized as what they were to you specifically?”

“I do,” she said, leaning into his touch.

They fell into a silence, one brought about not from lack of things to say, but a surfeit of them, and so much of it impossible to speak of directly. They had felt for themselves the inadequacy of words to encompass the limitless scope of loss. 

“It feels fresh still,” she said helplessly. “Though time has passed, I know it is, I have proof of it in these old weeds…and my own old, cast off widow’s weeds—”

“I know,” he said.

“What a wife I have turned out to be,” said Sansa, thickly, dashing the tears off her cheeks with a gloved hand. “Weeping over the passage of time, and her dead soulmate—”

“Darling girl,” he said, tightening his grip in a way that made Sansa feel a very sudden and inappropriate stab of desire for him. “Don’t joke about such things. Do you begrudge me my moody Januarys?”

“No.” Sansa felt some of the tension draining from her. There was such comfort in being so perfectly understood; to show her scars and see a matching set.

“It is hard, my dear, because the old injuries will always pain us and flare up when least convenient, but we all must soldier on as best we can. There’s no other alternative. Come, Lady Dragonstone; we are wanted in Brussels.”

A look was enough to make him realize she could not get up on her own.

“Ah. Right. Well, as I am the cause of your current predicament….” He moved his hand from the back of her neck and offered it to her.

Sansa took it, and awkwardly pulled herself up. “Ugh. I’m covered in mud.”

“Just a spot of dirt,” Stannis said, brushing it off with his free hand. “There we are. Good as new, or nearly.”

“Lady Dragonstone,” called Mrs. Payne, appearing in the door to the church, “do you need a hand? We are all about to head back.”

“No,” said Sansa, taking her husband’s proffered arm. “I’m fine.” And hand in hand they walked away from the graveyard, towards all that awaited them.


End file.
